The Ring of Urobara
by Osgard
Summary: Potter. Weasley. Malfoy. Black. Seven years after the Battle of Hogwarts, a new threat has emerged that will cross distant lands and centuries in this thinking person's canon fantasy. A dark ensemble page–turner filled with action and mystery.
1. The Burrow

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

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Harry Potter

and

The Ring of Urobara

Taking place seven years after the Battle of Hogwarts

(2005)

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CHAPTER 1: The Burrow

Devonshire, England

Late Summer 2005

Ginny watched his silhouette shrink into the grey backdrop of country sky behind the Burrow, the old Weasley homestead. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she closed her eyes in silent resignation, locked her teeth together, and swore under her breath. It was a singular existence, being _Mrs_. Harry Potter.

Chosen one. Auror. _Husband_.

Harry's fame had been exciting during their formative years at Hogwarts, but his exploits after the Second Wizarding War had really tested Ginny's resolve. Harry was a gifted wizard, no doubt. But the legend of his name had cast a long shadow. Pressured by the Ministry of Magic, hounded by the _Daily Prophet_, and menaced from Diagon Alley to Hogwarts, Harry felt the constant need to prove he was worthy of the endless attention of others. Last year's Chocolate Frog Cards of Harry didn't help. Those came after Shacklebolt offered him his present job as an Auror. "No N.E.W.T. test needed for our man Harry," Shacklebolt had said. In truth, Ginny knew Harry was extending himself too far. The Wizarding World may be enamored with the legend of _Harry Potter_, but Ginerva Potter loved _Harry_. Simple, thick–headed, four–eyed Harry.

The silhouette was now gone. Ginny pushed her long red hair out of her face and looked west toward the Bristol Channel. The wind was picking up. She turned to go back indoors.

Ginny and Harry's lives had been blissfully quiet for the last few months. Shortly after James Sirius had been born, Arthur finally agreed to move Molly to a flat near Hyde Park in London. Officially retired now, Molly loved taking her new grandson James on long walks in the park while Arthur continued his emeritus work in the Department of Mysteries. Harry was home more often now, and though he frequently seemed driven to distraction, Ginny was glad for the quieter moments they had together. Sometimes they would have tea on the front porch. Sometimes they would read together. Mostly, though, she simply enjoyed seeing him home with their son.

That bliss—the happiness they had fought for and given up so much for—came crashing down with last month's attacks. The image of Harry's seething, angry face was the last impression she had of him. He had come charging into the Burrow during a massive storm, with her wet brother Ron _petrified_ in his arms. Moments later, Ginny had recognized the _fiendfyre_ wounds on Ron's cursed body. When Harry's yelling woke the baby, it only caused him to shout louder.

In the past few months, Ginny had come to recognize Harry's need to prove himself had now taken its shape as the desire to be head of the Aurors. Family afternoon tea had become an occasion to talk about Shacklebolt's mismanagement of the Aurors and what Harry thought could be done if he were put in charge. When Ron and Hermione visited, Harry would invariably pull Ron outside to discuss his vision. In fact, Harry had been the one to call on Ron for this latest Auror mission. Ginny remembered seeing the tragedy all over his face and the way his voice shook. He was in a rage. And he wanted justice.

Harry would not tell her what had happened. He came in, laid Ron down, grabbed a few supplies and told her goodbye. Ginny had protested. She had news of her own, but Harry wasn't hearing it. The last thing he told her was to keep quiet. He grabbed her by the wrist and made her promise not to tell a soul about his absence or her brother's condition. And that's what she would do.

As she passed Hermione going up the stairs, Ginny went in to check on Ron. Peering through the bedroom door, she could see her brother was still catatonic. The mandrake was going to take some time. The quiet was deafening in the unusually silent large country house. Hermione anxiously walked over to the window and drew the curtain open to reveal the dim light.

"He's gone," Ginny said, descending the staircase.

"I can see that," Hermione snapped.

"There was nothing else I could do."

"Oh but you are dense, Ginny. You know what he's going to do."

"I honestly don't. But, I promised him…"

"You _promised_ him what?"

"I promised him that I'd wait and keep things quiet."

"Keep things…quiet?"

"That's right."

"This is a matter for the Ministry!" Hermione objected.

Ginny glared at Hermione. Opening her mouth, only to close it and turn her head to the floor. Hermione stepped away from the curtains and found some modicum of composure. "I'll be upstairs," Hermione said to the banister as she passed Ginny.

"Hermione, please don't cause any trouble. Don't contact anyone."

Hermione spun around, "What makes you think _you_ can…!"

"Please. Go see about my brother."

Hermione briefly surveyed the entryway and saw the disturbed ceramic jar from the discussion that morning sitting idly by the front door.

"Where is he going?" asked Hermione.

"I don't know."

"Well, what was in the jar?"

Ginny looked briefly at Hermione and then silently walked to the back of the house. She stopped and cupped her flat belly with her hand. How had he known about the baby? In any event, there was nothing left for her to do now but to let things take their course. She looked over to the storage closet, filled with coats and quiddich gear. She'd no doubt be taking a leave of absence from the Holyhead Harpies in the fall. A lot of things would be different now.

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A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing.


	2. The Gift

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

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CHAPTER 2: The Gift

Outskirts of Berwick–Upon–Tweed, England

The Previous Night

The stars above whispered a faint glow through the hanging fog over Berwick. He had followed the directions in the letter sent to him three days ago to this shadowy, isolated place—an abandoned farmstead seven miles west of town. His patience began to fail him. A quarter past ten. Where was this messenger? Aside from the enclosed clipping from the _Daily Prophet_, the letter itself gave few clues as to the purpose of the meeting, but the faint watermark was unmistakable. It was from the House of Slytherin. Preceding the letter's directions, the letter simply stated,

A messenger will have a parcel for you at the following location. Come alone.

The most intriguing clue was the newspaper clipping: a hastily torn article from the _Daily Prophet_, detailing the recent attack against two Aurors, Heloise Güring and Ronald Weasley. Heloise was unknown to him, but he of course knew Ron Weasley all too well. Someone was attempting to kill Aurors. Someone associated with Slytherin. Behind him, the wind shifted—someone was approaching.

"Relax. Did you come alone?" the dark figure called out. He was a tall, thin man dressed in fine dark robes.

"What's this, then?"

"Easy, mate." The figure stopped advancing. "I have something for you. Something I think you're going to enjoy."

"Is that you, Nott?" He could make him out now, though it had been a few years. The messenger was Theodore Nott. His father, who had served Voldemort during both the First and Second Wizarding Wars, raised Theodore. After the Battle of Hogwarts, Theodore had virtually disappeared. Was he behind the recent attacks?

"You still remember. I'm touched."

Nodding impatiently, "Well, why are we out here in the middle of nowhere? What's with this letter? Are you behind the attacks?"

"Do you know that we're standing on a ley line—an ancient geographic alignment of transfigurative power? The old medieval wizards used these alignments to travel up and down England." Theodore reached into his robe and pulled out a small package. "An interested party asked me to give you this—paid me a lot of coin to do it too."

"Who?"

"I can't say. Here, take it. I made an unbreakable vow, so don't muck about."

Theodore held out the package, waiting for its intended recipient to approach him. Standing before him was a powerful wizard, more powerful than he, and he wasn't interested in any hazardous spells being flung about. He, too, was alone—also part of his vow. The potent wizard approached steady and cautiously. Taking the package in his hand, he found it was a small case containing a letter, a smaller box and a larger bit of butcher paper wrapped around a hand–sized object. The letter came open first.

* * *

Salutations,

In the name of the House of Slytherin, and all those loyal to its fallen banner, I proudly take full responsibility for the recent attacks against the Aurors, as well as the attempted heist of Gringott's Bank of London three weeks ago. As our power grows, such attacks will increase in severity and frequency. I present no empty boast, for I have already succeeded where the Lord Voldemort failed. As proof of this, I offer you the enclosed.

The first is a token of things to come. It's called an urobara, and it is an ancient power. With it, you will find that you hear more than you have ever before. It was sought by Salazar Slytherin for some time, but never found. It is now yours. The second gift is proof of my seriousness. May it show you that a reckoning is coming to the Wizarding World.

We shall meet when my work abroad is completed.

Soran Appian Minsky

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His furrowed brow betrayed his confusion as he dropped the creased letter to his side, slowly turning his face away from the package in his outstretched hand. Yet his eyes could not help but remain fixed upon the box. He looked up at Theodore who appeared a little amused. "Have you looked in the box?"

"No. I took a very carefully worded vow. Its contents are for your eyes only."

He looked back down at the two small, neatly wrapped 'gifts' contained in the case. He reached for the first gift described. The urobara was an obsidian ring, made to appear as a coiled snake devouring its tail. It was heavy for its size, with dozens of tiny scratches giving it a centuries–old appearance.

"Put it on," said Theodore.

"I think I'll wait on that. Thanks."

The second gift laid waiting in the case. It was much more hastily wrapped than the urobara ring. A few small brown stains crusted at a sharp corner of the uneven paper wrapping. Lifting the package out of the case, it was larger than the ring, but much lighter. It's featherweight instinctively caused him to slowly and carefully remove the wrapping. Bright, spider–webbed broken glass filled the wire–rimmed eyeglasses set in the paper. _What a strange thing to give someone. What proof could this be? Why make Theodore Nott vow to give these glasses to me_, he thought. Raising the glasses in the moonlight, he realized the source of the small brown stains in the paper. The glasses had blood caked along the rim, and splattered lightly along the lower right edge. "Whose glasses are these?"

"I think you know who they belong to."

"WHOSE glasses are these? Potter? Do these belong to Harry Potter?"

"My work here is done." Theodore turned to leave, only to be pushed violently to the ground. Reaching back to grab his wand, his right arm was suddenly pinned to the ground by his inquisitor's foot. Kicking wildly with his left leg, Theodore received a sharp kick to his groin, followed by a stomp to his chest. His eyes wide in the moonlight, Theodore yelled, "I can't tell you anything!"

"_Legilimens!"_ yelled the furious wizard hovering over Theodore.

With a brief flash from the wand above his face, Theodore's mind violently tore open. A lifetime of moments flooded forward—a rush of seeming random experiences connected by arbitrary commonalities. In excruciating torment, he was probed further. What did Theodore know about Harry Potter? The scenes began to flow into linear streams, flowing parallel with some while crossing others. The English countryside. He could see Hogwarts through a train window. Harry at the sorting hat. Gryffindor. Ron Weasley. The _Daily Prophet_ article. Theodore had lied; he _had_ seen the inside of the case. "SHOW ME YOUR MIND!" commanded the wizard over him. But Theodore resisted.

Theodore captured his assailant's leg and thrust him off his chest. Rolling leftward, he grabbed his wand and swung away.

"_Protego!"_ Theodore had no effect. _"Expelliarmus!"_ cried Theodore. Countered. Theodore trembled in fear. His spellcraft was having little effect as he was again and again interrogated.

"_Legilimens!"_

But Theodore countered, _"Protego!"_ His mind would not be invaded again.

"_Alarte Ascendare!"_ Theodore's protective shield dissipated as his body was viciously flung twenty feet into the air. His legs came down with a thunderous crack. Theodore screamed in pain.

"_Legilimens!"_ Theodore's mind buckled under the torment. Gryffindor. Harry Potter. The Battle of Hogwarts. Potter's under attack again. Potter's alone and in torment. Potter's alive…but not for long. A dark figure, clad in serpentine clothes, approaches Theodore in his mind. He is given a package and promised a chest full of gold for his trouble. He makes the unbreakable vow. The vow punishes his mind; a mind sworn not to divulge it's secrets. Who is the serpentine figure? Who is it? Who? _Darkness._

Exhausted, the embattled wizard looked over Theodore's corpse. It was, of course, an accident—a deadly cocktail of legilimency, an unbreakable vow, and the wizard's own ferocious zeal. Theodore's mind was destroyed.

It burned his insides, seeing his handiwork. The wizard had seen too much death. The Second Wizarding War. Lord Voldemort. And now this new plot? He looked over at the glasses and the ring on the ground. Theodore had wanted him to put the ring on. If Theodore had been sent to kill him, this was a strange way to go about it. Needing answers, he walked over to the ring, drew in a long breath, and slid it onto his finger.

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A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing.


	3. The Black Adder

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

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CHAPTER 3

The ring seemed to have no effect. The wizard turned toward the dead body next to him. With a flick of his wand he cast an _incendio_ spell, lighting the corpse on fire. For good measure, he tossed the small case, the news article, and the loose wrapping into the blue flames as well—keeping the letter and Potter's glasses. He watched as the small magical inferno quickly burned away all evidence of the evening's misadventures. _Better to be safe than to have a misunderstanding with the Ministry. Those gits would just as soon send you to Azkaban as look at you, _he thought.

"We are here," a voice called from behind the Wizard. Fearing his cover–up foiled, he spun like a top toward the voice in the darkness. He stood quiet as stone, his wand instinctively at the ready. As the fire died out behind him, he saw nothing ahead but fog, mist, and the blue–black silhouettes of trees, brush, and distant hills.

"Lumos!"

White light passed from his wand into the branches ahead. Now illuminated, some of the branches along the ground seemed to wriggle and move. Surprised, the wizard took a step back, lowering his wand to get a better look. About two–dozen black adders were slithering across the ground—some away from him, while others were flanking him at his sides. "Who's there?" One of the snakes moving to his left lifted it's head toward the light.

"We are here to sserve you," said the snake.

"Ah, thanks. But that's not necessary," the wizard was thrown by the idea that he was suddenly talking to a nest of adders.

"What'ss that you ssay?" said another snake to his right. The wizard jerked to the right as the loquacious snake hissed loudly at the offensive light.

"I said _no thanks_."

"Why have you beckoned uss, Wizard?"

"I didn't ask for you." His gaze moved down his wand to the urobara ring on his finger. "What is this maddess? I'm no parselmouth!"

"Why do you call on uss?" another adder called from directly behind him.

"What, is it the ring? Is that what you want?" Panicked, he pulled the ring off his finger and threw it in front of him. Loud hisses erupted from all directions, and the undulating mass of black adders moved toward him in unison.

"_Ascendio!"_ cried the wizard. Instantly, the wizard levitated over the nest of adders and could now see there was more snake than dirt for five yards in every direction. The snakes continued to hiss loudly, but ceased to speak to him. Meanwhile, they seemed to ignore the urobara altogether. Levitating through the air, the wizard made his way over to a nearby oak tree and planted himself on a branch some twelve feet off the ground. After making several attempts to communicate, it became clear that the ring was what afforded him the power of serpent speech.

"_Wingardium Leviosa!"_ commanded the drained wizard. With little effort, the schoolyard spell had the desired effect, and the ring came magically toward the tree and into his hand. "Now, hear me. Will you all please go back into the woods!"

"…that iss why we come to your aid," continued one of the snakes.

"Sorry?"

"He doesn't hear uss," said one snake to another.

"That iss not true. Do you hear uss, Wizard?"

"Yes, yes I hear you. Why are you here? What powers does this ring have?"

The snake looked back at the nest, "You ssee? He doesn't hear uss."

Another snake responded, "We must show him the power of the urobara."

"Agreed," replied the first snake. "You have come to this ssacred place to claim the right of the urobara. We will sshow you its power."

"No! Just tell me. That would be sufficient, I assure…" The wizard was not able to finish, as an adder along the branch behind him bit him in the back of the right shoulder blade. Over–adjusting from the shock, he swung violently to the left and fell off the tall branch chest–first, crashed against a lower branch with his stomach and leg, spun sideways, and landed on his back with his legs breaking most of his fall. Lying in a nest of adders, wind knocked out of his lungs, he saw that his wand had slid from its position in his cloak and now lay next to his left side. He reached over, feeling his chest stretch painfully from the fall, to grasp his wand. At that moment another adder bit his unnoticed right hand, instinctively causing him to retract both his arms and hands toward his body.

"Now go where you are bound, my lord," instructed one of the adders. The wizard began to feel a tingling sensation in his right hand—specifically the finger that carried the urobara. Taking a deep breath, he turned his body and reached for his wand. If he was going to die, he was going to take some of these snakes with him. He raised his wand just as he saw a black cloud covering the adders, the trees, and the stars. The velvet black consumed him, and then he was gone.

—

Laying in the dewy grass, exhausted from his clashes with midnight messengers and talking snakes, the embattled wizard, husband, and father breathed a sigh of relief. He had mysteriously apparated from that foul adder nest to a rather peaceful setting. With his back injured, all he could see were the stars above him. It was a clear night. The fog he remembered was no more. The sweet smell of gardenias filled his nostrils. He rested for a few minutes, taking in the night sky and filling his lungs with much needed air. He could make out the constellation Cassiopeia to the north, and smiled at his own cleverness. As sure as there were goblins running Gringott's, he was in Wiltshire. He looked to his right hand, and noticed there was no snakebite, although there remained a little dried blood. He was still bruised from his fall out of the tree, but he was pretty sure he felt no snakebite on his back either. Beyond his sheer exhaustion and the beating he took from his disagreement with the oak tree, he was none the worse for wear. Finding he could move his arms and legs with some care, he slowly lifted himself off the ground and smiled. Stretching his legs and rubbing his head, he took a good long look at the manor in front of him. The urobara had given Draco Malfoy the power to discern parseltongue, immunity from snakebite, and, apparently, the ability to apparate home. Draco felt for his wand and Potter's glasses in his coat. Both were there. With a quiet sigh, the lone wizard brushed off his clothes and started for his front door. In a few hours, Draco would collect his thoughts and craft a plan. For now, it was time for some much needed rest.

—

Draco awoke to find his wife, Astoria, nursing their son, Scorpius. Astoria was a little startled by Draco's sudden appearance in the nursery, as she had not heard him come in the night before. Draco put his hands up in quiet reassurance.

"It's alright Stori, it's just me."

"Where have you been? You look like you've been wrestling a basilisk all night." Astoria got up out of her rocker and laid her baby down in his crib. Draco came in behind her, wrapping his arm around her back as he watched young Scorpius fall asleep.

"God, you smell like a basilisk too!" she grinningly chided.

"Shh. Come with me into the den. There's something we need to talk about."

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A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing.


	4. The Manor

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

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CHAPTER 4: The Manor

Wiltshire, England

Wednesday, the First Day

Malfoy Manor was a spacious, two–story late Georgian estate, with generous twelve–pane sash windows and twin chimneys, wrapped in chestnut and caramel stone masonry. Albino peacocks freely roamed the spacious gardens, flanked by gently sloping fields. A small pavilion sat by the lake in the back where grandfather Abraxas, father Lucius, and, when the day came two years ago, Draco too asked his beloved to marry him. Wrought–iron gates, loyal wolfhounds, and powerful spells protected the serenity of the well–aged Manor.

Inside, the walls contained splashes of rococo and modern colors to suit the varying tastes of the women who had come to love Malfoy Manor over the centuries. The spacious entryway welcomed the eye to the hall of Malfoy portraits—some older than Hogwarts itself. Marble fireplaces on either side of the house warmed the walls and stone floors, covered with rugs that told of distant voyages and exotic bazaars. The purple–colored drawing room had been repainted since the Second Wizarding War; the broken chandelier never replaced. It was a home with stories both warm and terrible. But, for better or worse, it was now Draco's domain, Astoria's refuge, and baby Scorpius' entire world. No child knew love like a Malfoy child; they were raised to believe they were the best because they came from the very best. Such had been the case for Abraxas, Lucius, and Draco. Such would be the case, with some variation in parental philosophy, for Scorpius.

Seated on the Victorian chaise lounge, Astoria returned her teacup to its saucer, and silently placed both on the end table to her right. "Well, Draco," she said with her perfected, crisp, received British, "That is quite an alarming story!"

"More toast for the mistress?" asked the well–groomed, brightly togaed house elf to her left. Astoria gave a nearly imperceptible turn of the head. With the slightest rise of her first and second fingers, the servant quickly and silently escaped from her sight.

"Let me see your hand," she said. With a silent nod, Draco stood up from his armchair and walked over to his adored Astoria and complied. "You said that you apparated _after_ the snake bit you on the hand."

"Yeah. _Go where you're bound_, and then I was here." Draco could see the wheels turning in Astoria's lovely head. He loved her for that. Two years his junior, she was as brilliant as she was beautiful—a stunning pure–blood witch. Draco's father, though at first confused by his choice of Astoria over Pansy, was nonetheless elated to have Astoria join the Malfoy dynasty. Narcissa, Draco's mother, was less enthused by her appearance at Malfoy Manor, in part because she didn't sense in Astoria the cutthroat sensibility that had for so long sustained the Malfoy women. In a word, Narcissa found Astoria a _weak_ woman. As a token of goodwill toward Narcissa, the name _Scorpius_ was chosen from her family line; Astoria thought it was too dark, but it warmed Narcissa to Astoria—publicly anyway.

Granted, once Scorpius was born, this traditionally meant that both Narcissa and Lucius would be moving to the Malfoy country estate. This move, in some ways, was a blessing for Narcissa insofar as the Malfoys were generally no longer welcome in polite society, and the cries of a new baby did not interest Narcissa in the least. Lucius too had issues with his new role as a grandparent, stemming mostly from the fact that, after coming to terms with his part in the Second Wizarding War, he felt he had failed as a father with his own son. This was the reason Draco fell in love with Astoria. She came after Hogwarts, after the war, and was so different from the way he was brought up. She made Draco feel he had a chance to live his young life all over again.

"And you don't usually have the ability to apparate, right?" Astoria asked.

"Right. I've never had the ability. It must've been the ring, but the letter didn't say anything about apparation."

"It's possible this Soran didn't know, or that you were to be told later. Anything is possible at this point. What do you think you'll do now?" Astoria asked.

"Well, this all leads back to the Aurors and Potter. The problem is, I don't know who's working for Soran and whom I can trust. I mean, if I go to the Aurors and one of them is with Soran, then Potter will probably be killed outright."

Astoria took firm hold of his dirty, blood–dried hand. "Drake, I don't like where this is going. Maybe… Maybe we could drop off the glasses with one of Harry's friends?"

Draco slid onto the chaise lounge next to Astoria, vividly aware of a moment from his childhood when he climbed onto the chair—only to be spanked by his mother for the transgression. "I could present the evidence to Ginny Potter, see what she knows." Smiling at his young wife, "I mean, if you can't trust the guy's wife, whom can you trust?"

Astoria didn't look amused. "I wouldn't go to Ginerva. Maybe go to one of his other mates in the Ministry, but not to Ginny. Not now."

"What do you mean, not _now_?"

"Now is not a good time for her," Astoria emphatically told the coffee table.

"Not a…what do you mean _for her_?" Draco turned to his wife, and noticed her change in demeanor. "What's going on with Ginny Potter? Do you know her or something? You're not friends are you?" Draco laughed a nervous laugh at the thought, "I'd know about _that_."

"I ran into Ginerva at St. Mungo's during one of Scorpius' baby checkups." Astoria turned her deadpan face toward her young husband, "she's pregnant."

"Pregnant? Potter Junior, huh? That's just what the world needs."

"Drake, she doesn't know I'm married to you. She told me because I was asking her about the _Harpies_, her quidditch team. She was ecstatic about the baby and it just came out. Sweetheart, she had no friends with her. I think she was trying to do this in secret. I was just some random fan to her."

Draco was putting it together, "she didn't think you were with the _Prophet_? You sure she wasn't looking for just a little more of the spotlight?"

"No. It wasn't like that. She's a real down–to–earth person. I was happy for her, and wouldn't have told a soul except that you're thinking of dragging her into this. Draco, this was about two months ago; she might not have told anyone yet. This is a critical time for her."

Draco looked a little amused, "Well, she's no flower, that one. You should have seen her in the war. She knows what she's doing. She's a tough little cookie."

"That may be so, but I don't think she should be bothered about this."

"Who else am I gonna go to?"

Astoria paused. She was mouthing words. She did that when she was working something out. Draco found her little quirks enjoyable and calming. "You go to Harry Potter."

"Mmm." Draco was nodding and then found he was caught off guard. "How's that?" he asked, his mind drifting from fatigue.

"The snakebite drew your blood, which flowed over the ring and brought you home—_to where you are bound_. Well, the glasses are certainly bound to Harry, so the blood on the glasses should take you right to him!" Astoria appeared pleased with herself.

"OK, great. So I apparate to Harry. And what if Harry is in a magically closed room that I splinch into, or he's hanging over a fiery pit, or he's been buried alive?"

"Well, so don't do it. Just leave it alone," Astoria said.

"No. I can't do that. That makes me an accomplice to all this. I know stuff now. I need to get to the bottom of this—and unseen by Soran's people."

Astoria brought her face closer to his, "Are you sure this _saving Harry_ stuff isn't about evening up the old Hogwarts score?"

"I've made my peace with all that, Stori. Potter's problem is that he believes his own press. Potter never did anything without everyone at Hogwarts helping him. Harry never saw a fair fight in his life." Draco looked away, toward his infant son's room. "Me, I was forced into my role by Voldemort. He controlled my family, took over this house, and made me his puppet." Draco's hands began to tremble. "When Harry stood up to Voldemort, he had a bloody prophecy on his side—he _knew_ he would win. What did I know when I faced down Dumbledore, huh? Nothing but the fear that my family would be wiped out if I didn't abandon my childhood to serve in darkness. What the hell kind of a choice is that?" Draco looked down at his shaking hands and held them still. "I'm the bad guy?"

Astoria closed her eyes and lightly brushed the back of Draco's head. "There are no good guys or bad guys. There is only duty and love. You have always loved your family, and you have always done what was required of you. You are ambitious, and brave, and handsome and I am proud to call you my husband."

Draco turned to his muse, calmer now, "And what is my duty now?"

"To rest."

"I can't do that." Draco dug the eyeglasses out from his pocket.

"Then what do you think you should do?"

"Lucius' son might have thought in his young twisted mind that he would have enjoyed learning of the death of Harry Potter. But Scorpius' father is not that boy." Draco gazed onto the floor and paused for a moment. When the words came, they came simply, with no hint of the resolve that lay beneath them. "I have to find Harry Potter."

Astoria nodded and kissed the side of Draco's head. Down the hallway, Scorpius began to cry for his diaper to be changed, and Draco let out a small chuckle.

—

After a change of clothes, and a brief packing of provisions, Draco looked over his body to make sure he had all he needed. It dawned on him just how much he looked like his father. His kit consisted of a set of midnight–black wizard's robes for subterfuge, a dark Malfoy cape for the elements, his wand and the ring. He thought of taking one of his family swords, but he wasn't sure if he might at some point need to go through Muggle security, and could not bear parting with it.

"Is there anything else you need?" Astoria asked as she handed him a small packed knapsack. Seven house elves stood behind her, ready to drag out the most esoteric item from the most remote corner of the Manor.

"Just a kiss." The house elves turned away as one of them rolled his eyes.

Astoria walked over to her husband, with a smile that almost hid worry in her eyes. She stood now with her eyes at Draco's chin.

"Don't worry, Stori. I'll be fine." Draco bent down and kissed Astoria, pulling her arms closer to him. This moment was where he had always longed to be. Kill _Albus Dumbledore to have this—got it. Be Harry Potter's best mate in school—got it. Taming a Hippogryph? Facing Voldemort?_ Now that he knew such love as a grown man, Draco reflected on just how lucky he was. Now, he would show his wife and his son what it meant to be the master of Malfoy Manor. It was not a price Astoria expected, or at least never voiced, but it was the cost Draco now expected of himself.

Astoria stepped away from Draco. What words were in her heart, she kept to herself. She watched as Draco rubbed a bit of the caked blood from Harry's glasses onto the urobara ring, and she immediately felt a wave of magical power wash over the room. Draco, on the other hand, seemed unaffected. She waited for the tell–tale signs of apparation—the majestic swirls of white cloud. But they did not come. Instead, she watched in a kind of silent horror as her husband was enveloped in wisps and then waves of black smoke. This was undoubtedly dark magic. She was not prepared for that. Was Draco destined to be a dark wizard? Was her son? She did not know. What she did know was that her husband, the love of her life, was now gone from her sight—taken by the forces of darkness. She would never admit it to Draco, but she believed in the darkness of this world. And it made her fear for her baby's soul.

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A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing.


	5. Silencio

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

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CHAPTER 5

Devonshire, England

Draco knew this euphoric sensation; the powerful waves of purple and black smoke that swirled around and through him. But the moment faded, as did his feeling. He looked around, taking in his environment. Draco was standing in a hay field, surrounded by rolling hills of oak, pine, and chestnut trees. At the end of the field was a dilapidated, over–grown shanty. It had the look of a farmstead that, given the cruel passage of time, produced creaky and weathered extensions that seemed to grow more upward than outward. Surely any integrity this building possessed was magical, for all the shabby architects in the world combined could not have built a worse looking house. Draco's bemusement soon came crashing down as an angry figure came stomping toward him in the field. He wasn't sure which vision disgusted him more, the Burrow in the distance, or Hermione Grainger coming at him at full speed.

"Draco Malfoy! What are you doing here? Come to finish the job, have you?"

"Sorry? What?"

"Come to finish off my Ronnie, have we? Well, not today, Malfoy."

"What? I was…" But Draco wasn't fast enough. Hermione already had her wand held at his head, now a mere 50 feet away.

_"Silencio!"_ Draco's speech failed him, as Hermione came bursting towards him. Draco was alarmed, and a little amused by Hermione's ferocity. It had been six years since Hogwarts, and she had grown to be an alluring brunette. Her hair was different now, though Draco could not remember how it had looked before. All he could think of was those silly school gowns, but Hermione was now a sophisticated woman in her mid–twenties in slacks and a smart blouse. Draco took a few steps back, trying not to smile. He slowly pulled out his wand. "Drop it!" commanded Hermione, and Draco complied. Now giving into the ridiculousness of the occasion, and the daring of the striking young witch before him, he took to the ground with a thud, crossed his legs, and leaned against his arms in the hay.

Hermione could not believe her eyes. While she knew without question that this was Draco, she was stunned to see the complete visage of Lucius Malfoy. This is how Lucius appeared before he was a Death Eater. Her heart was pounding in fear as she looked over his body—for weapons or any other evidence of ill intentions. A shock of blonde hair crowned a lean face that framed steel grey eyes. Lucius…no Draco…was smiling at her. Her eyes darted from his black clothing to the field around her. Was his smile due to his confidence in some stratagem in which she was lured into this field while Draco's henchmen took the Burrow? "What's going on?" she demanded. His shoulders and chest shook for a moment in a silent laugh. His gaze broke hers, as he closed his mouth and looked away. He was waiting for something, and he wasn't struggling with her—either because he didn't have to, or because he didn't want to. "Let me see your hands, Draco."

Draco complied by sitting up and spreading his arms and hands open. The dark mark still lingered on his arm, just under the sleeve of his black cloak. On his left hand was a wedding band. Eww. Someone married Draco Malfoy! Some little tramp from Hogwarts, no doubt. Probably that Pansy Parkinson. On his right hand was an obsidian ring, the shape of which she could not make out. "What's the ring?" Draco mouthed the word, '_married_.' Hermione rolled her eyes and cocked her head, "Congratulations, Draco. I meant the _other_ ring." Draco let out an exasperated breath and picked himself up off the ground, dusting the hay off his clothes as he ignored Hermione and began to walk toward the Burrow. Hermione ran over and collected Draco's discarded wand. Draco continued to walk to the Burrow, his dark figure marring the pastoral landscape as a piece of coal might blemish a pastel oil painting.

Looking now toward the Burrow, Hermione could see that Ginny was standing at the front banister. Hermione felt at once that she had failed in something—though what it was, she wasn't sure. What more could she do? Draco was without a wand, without powers of speech or spell, and without allies as far as she could tell. With Draco closing in on Ginny, Hermione stopped giving chase and stood at the precipice of the hayfield.

Ginny looked at Draco with none of the strength Hermione had shown him. She instinctively pulled the shawl that now draped over her arms closer to her. Her red hair disheveled, and her slight willowy frame swaying in the breeze, Ginny looked despondently at the dark figure nearing her porch. "Do you know what's happened to my husband?"

Hermione's eyes darted past Draco up to Ginny, incredulous that Ginny was laying all their cards on the table. The mystery of her husband's disappearance was breaking her, and Draco's appearance could not be mere coincidence. Draco thought of his wife and closed his eyes. In the face of Hermione's impishness, he knew just what to do. But he was not prepared for Ginny's pain. He lowered his head and nodded. Hermione stood fifteen feet behind him, a wand in each hand, both lowered to the ground.

Darkness had come to the Burrow in the person of Draco Malfoy.

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A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing.


	6. The Bibliophile

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

* * *

CHAPTER 6

Hermione dismissed the _Silencio_ spell she had cast on Draco as he and Ginny walked together outside the Burrow. At first, Hermione attempted to follow, but Ginny waved her off. "Are you alright?" Hermione called out to Ginny. Ginny nodded as she listened to Draco tell the tale he would not tell Hermione. With their backs to Hermione, they continued to walk. The wind was picking up now, and, feeling a bit useless and cast aside, Hermione decided to go indoors.

She walked through the cozy entryway and up the creaky, spiraling staircases to Ron's room. As he lay there in his petrified state, silently convalescing with the aid of a combination of spells and potions, Hermione couldn't help but let her mind drift to melancholy thoughts. What if Ron never recovered? What if Harry was dead? What if all that's left of her former life is a bitter would-be-sister-in-law, the now ever-absent Weasley parents, and those insufferable older brothers? Were that the case, her best bet might very well be to take up dentistry with her muggle parents. Hermione took some cloth and wiped at Ron's forehead. She whispered into his ear, pretending for her own sake that he could hear her. She felt alone, and a little bit helpless—that's what bothered her the most, the sense of helplessness.

Hermione heard the door downstairs swing closed. She could just barely make out Ginny's voice and what must have been Draco's. "Hermione, would you please come down. We have a question for you," Ginny called out. We? Hermione quickly made her way down the spiral staircase and into the Weasley foyer, never letting Draco out of her penetrating gaze. Once downstairs, Hermione snidely turned her shoulder away from Draco and obliged her would-be sister. "What is it, Ginny?"

Ginny recognized Hermione's telltale defensive posture and ignored her puckish demeanor. Hermione was a busybody and had a need to help. Ginny asked, "What do we know about the Ring of Urobara?" Hermione thought for a moment, and her face suddenly lit up. She looked at Draco, smiling, "That's what you're wearing, you daft git."

Ginny snapped, "Hermione! What do we know about it?"

Hermione whipped her brunette hair around as she turned to go to Arthur Weasley's library. She had spent long hours in that room over the years and even had some of her own books in there now. One day, perhaps, it would belong to her—she often acted as if it already did. Ginny and Draco stood for a moment and, realizing Hermione wasn't coming out any time soon, they walked together to the crowded office space where Hogwarts' most celebrated bibliophile was fast at work. Books flew off the shelf and returned to the shelf in rapid succession. Hermione stood with her back to them, her outstretched arms containing a dance of wind and golden light, her hair and blouse rustling slightly with each moving book. Seven open books effortlessly floated in front of her…six…now nine. Hermione had perfected her researching methodology by the age of 14; at 25 she was a fact-finding virtuoso. Impatient, Draco started to interrupt Hermione with questions but was caught off guard when a large book came off the shelf and hurled itself to within inches of Draco's nose. Ginny took the book from in front of Draco's face, "Her parents bought her a laptop last Christmas, but she just found it frustratingly slow. I wouldn't disturb her." Ginny looked down at the page where the book was partially open. "It's a biography of Salazar Slytherin." Ginny began to thumb through the biography as Hermione continued her spellcraft.

Keeping his distance, Draco walked silently between the two women to stand adjacent to Hermione. He watched as the books flung themselves back and forth from the nexus of Hermione's witchly grasp. Draco could now make out that Hermione's eyes were directing the dancing lights, as her pupils were the same golden color. Hermione was reading with the light. Sometimes the light moved between books, sometimes between pages, and sometimes they silently bounced off of each other. The constant flutter of pages in the room created a strange, almost humming cacophony. The dust from some of the older books was swept into Hermione's pool of whirling air. It gave the appearance of a storm, of chaos, which contradicted Draco's sense of Hermione. Wasn't she little-miss-order-and-rules in school? This did not seem ordered to him. She was now talking to the books in a low monotone voice that did not seem hers. As the books, one by one, began to make their way back to their shelves, something dawned on Draco. This is what Hermione always did—make order out of chaos. She wasn't in the middle of a storm. No, that was entirely wrong. She was conducting a symphony that no one else could hear. Standing in the dust-clouded room, Hermione stopped her incantation once the last book was put away. As she turned effortlessly to Ginny, her eyes changed from gold to dark brown. Satiated, Hermione glowed with a peaceful smile. Quietly, she reassured her friend, "I know the source of the ring."

"Where is it from?" asked Ginny.

Hermione raised her chin and lowered her gaze to the floor focusing intently "The Ring of Urobara is a protean ring which is said to give the gift of parseltongue. When fed with blood, the ring allows its wearer to apparate short distances across ley lines."

Draco chimed in, "Ley lines, you mean like the old roads medieval wizards used to travel across England?"

Hermione eyed Draco and sardonically replied, "Yes, Draco. That's a good lad. Ley lines are ancient routes of magical alignment, sort of like roads. And they go much, much farther than England. In fact, they cover the world. We stopped paying attention to ley lines a few centuries ago because of the advantages of floo powder."

Ginny added, "With chimneys, someone with floo powder can travel to any chimney they ask for; ley lines would be rather limited."

"Right," said Hermione. "Ley lines are a bit spread out." Hermione turned to Draco, "The Burrow was built at the edge of a ley line. I guess that's how you found your way to the middle of the Weasley field. I saw you apparate out there. I knew you couldn't have done that by yourself."

Ginny interrupted, "The Burrow is on a ley line?"

"Most older magical buildings are. Ley lines are natural wellsprings of magic. That was the reason Hogwarts was built out in the middle of nowhere. Hogwarts lies at an intersection of several major ley lines."

Draco mused, "Malfoy Manor must have also been built on a ley line."

Ginny snapped, "No, Draco!"

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows and reared her head slightly, "No, what, Ginny?"

"Please continue, Hermione," Ginny responded.

"No, what?"

"It's not your concern, Hermione."

"Not my…?"

"Hermione, damn it, tell us everything you know about the ring. Where does it come from?"

Hermione looked over at Draco, cocked her head, and then looked back at Ginny. "What's going on here?"

"What does Salazar Slytherin have to do with this? His biography flew by."

Hermione ignored Ginny, "Draco, what do you know about this ring? Why do you keep chiming in? Why don't you tell us what you know."

Draco took a step back and put up his hands, looking back at Ginny and then to Hermione, "I don't know any more than what you've said."

Ginny jumped in, "Draco! Hermione, my husband's in trouble. Now, you were saying about Salazar Slytherin?"

A moment passed, Hermione let out an exasperated breath and continued, "Most of what we know about the ring goes back to the scattered notes of Salazar Slytherin. The ring was an heirloom of a sect Salazar researched obsessively, the _Ophions_. After Salazar Slytherin, no one else really mentions the Ophions. Salazar was Portuguese, but we know his ancestors originally came to Portugal from the Byzantine Empire—what used to be ancient Greece. Slytherin describes the Ophions as settling in the lower Greek islands at some prehistoric date and speculates they were originally a central Asian nomadic tribe. The Ophions were apparently snake worshippers, but little else about their beliefs or practices is known. An Ophic cult was popular in ancient Greece and Persia for some time but then eventually subsided. The Ophions are mentioned here and there in stories from late antiquity but seemed to pass into myth a century or two before Salazar Slytherin."

Ginny nodded and smiled reassuringly, "Ophions. Thank you, Hermione."

Squinting in concentration, Hermione asked, "Ginny, what do you know about Ophions? Are they active again? Are Ophions attacking Aurors?"

Draco stepped up, calmly, "Hermione, does the name Soran Minsky mean anything to you?"

Hermione's gaze dashed between the odd couple of inquisitors. "What is going on here? I demand to know what's going on! If Aurors are being attacked, then the Ministry needs to know!"

Ginny glided forcefully toward Hermione, "No, Hermione. The Ministry can't know anything about this. If word gets out that Draco is with us, Harry could be killed. Draco needs to keep the confidence of this Soran. Now, please, answer his question."

Hermione took a step back, "Soran. Soran Minsky. Doesn't ring a bell. Sorry."

Draco said, "Are you sure?"

Hermione shouted over them, "Enough! I have been more than patient! Ginny when did you…"

Ginny tuned Hermione out, "Draco, come with me. Let's be quick about this."

As the two started to turn away, Hermione yelled, "_Locomotor Mortis_!"

"_Silencio_!" Ginny angrily countered, rendering a startled Hermione mute.

Draco snatched his wand from Hermione and waved it toward rope hanging out of a chest, "_Incarcerous_." Hermione was then enveloped in rope, bound by magic she could not, or would not, undo. She watched a tearful-eyed Ginny look down and exit the still dusty room with Draco next to her.

"Thank you, Hermione," she said, as the door closed behind them. What had she done that Ginny would not trust her in her hour of need? Ginny was putting everyone in jeopardy by trusting Draco Malfoy. And what was Draco up to? Hermione stood in the middle of the room, considering the situation. After about ten minutes or so, she could hear the front door slam shut in the floor beneath her. Instinctively looking toward the floor, Hermione yelled for Ginny, but her voice failed her. She then hopped over to the window and saw Draco, by himself, walking back through the field in front of the Burrow. She could faintly hear Draco yelling back at the house.

"I'll find Harry! I promise!" and then the person of Draco Malfoy was enveloped in dark swirls of smoke—the kind of exit a Death Eater makes. Hermione again yelled out the window, only this time her voice came through. She also felt the rope come undone around her and immediately made her way through the door and down the staircase. She could see Ginny standing on the porch, just outside the front window. On the foyer table sat a mostly empty ceramic jar that had not been there during their earlier conversation. Hermione stopped to look at the jar. It was an ancient jar, the contents of which looked like soot or ash. She continued out the door to interrogate Ginny.

Wiping the tears from her cheeks, Ginny closed her eyes in silent resignation, locked her teeth together and swore under her breath. It was a singular existence, being _Mrs_. Harry Potter.

End Act I of III

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A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing.


	7. The Wolfhaus

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

* * *

CHAPTER 7: The Wolfhaus

Heidelberg, Germany

Wednesday, the First Day

Neville Longbottom downed the rest of his hefeweisen in one long draught. Beyond the tawny–roofed buildings of the old city lay the viridescent Odenwald Mountains. Longbottom had spent the afternoon perched on the eastern cliff in front of him, watching the altstadt from afar. A slick lather of suds slid to the bottom of the frosty pilsner glass in his hand. Replacing the glass onto its napkin, Neville could just make out the pub logo through the bottom of the glass—_Wolfhaus_. The moon being this close to full did not sit well with Neville, but this was where he was told to go, and Neville always did as he was told. Neville traced the contours of the napkin's lunar logo with his finger. A crescent moon. A glimpse of the dusky sky above reassured Neville that it would be another two or three days before the next full moon. He allowed his posture to ease just a little into his weathered patio chair as he let his mind wander.

Neville thought back a fortnight to that chaotic night in Birka. The night they nearly killed Ron Weasley. Along with their mentor, three Aurors had been given the charge by Shacklebolt to investigate the deaths in Birka, Sweden—Neville, Ron, and Harry. A thousand years ago, Birka had been a Viking settlement but the history of the island went back much, much further. The place dripped with a primeval, enigmatic magic. Once at Birka, Heloise Güring from the Durmstrang Institute was kind enough to lend her services as their local liaison. Dead werewolves had been splayed across ancient megalithic stones. Rigor mortis had taken the werewolves and nearly ceased again, which was consistent with their death occurring less than three days ago. Neville declared as much to the group, to which Ron responded by pointing out that, paradoxically, the moon was not full. Something had caused these werewolves to transform unnaturally. It was Harry that noticed the noise in the trees.

The ambush came without a sound. Dark creatures assailed the five wizards from all directions. With magnificent ferocity, Neville's master charged into the dark horde, flying into their champion in a burst of white cloud, dragging the two combatants out into the icy depths of Lake Mälaren. Neville counted two dark wizards, though there may have been more. Their champion he saw only in a flash and even then only in silhouette—it was an upright writhing creature, larger than a man. It let out a great wheezing shriek as it was tackled. Neville did not last long in the fight, having taken a nasty knock on the head. When he returned to consciousness he and Heloise were in a safe house in Stockholm.

Apparently, Harry had returned briefly to England with Ron to leave him in Hermione's care and had not yet returned. Heloise explained that Ron had been _petrified_ by one of the dark wizards. Meanwhile, Heloise had been badly burned by a _fiendfyre_ spell and was doing her best to tend to her own bandages, but had an inadequate knowledge of the necessary herbs and potions to counteract _fiendfyre_. Neville spent that evening tending to Heloise and discussing the matter with her. Heloise, it seemed, had a little more of the picture than Neville. Though she only remembered one dark wizard, she did get a clear look at the foot soldiers that had attacked them. It was not uncommon, explained Heloise, to see Drow in this part of the world, working as mercenaries for the criminal underworld. Drow were related to the house–elf species Neville was familiar with, but were far more aggressive and powerful. Larger and darker than house–elves with glowing blue eyes, the drow always hunted in clan–packs and lived in outright hatred of humans. "House elf," which is the same word in German as in English, is an impolite word among German wizards—to a drow, it is a call to arms. As Heloise explained it to Neville, wizards touring Germany are warned not to discuss house–elves in the hinterland; dire consequences have befallen those imprudent or forgetful of this warning.

With no word from Harry or Neville's fallen master, the two wizards resolved to continue their investigation. The Ministerium für Hexerei sent three wizards to assist Heloise and Neville—one werewolf and two non–werewolves, Wilhelm, Maria, and Reza. Wilhelm was a werewolf, a tracker and master Auror. Maria was an expert on the drow. Reza was an apprentice Auror whose master had apparently sent him to study in Germany for a year. The five of them had spent the last week following up leads on drow activity and the spike in recent werewolf disappearances throughout central Europe. Despite the absolute need to keep their investigation secret, their activities had not gone unnoticed. Heloise found it difficult to travel with her injuries, and some infighting came to the fore as Wilhelm became increasingly distrustful of Reza.

The irregular quintuplet of wizards tracked the Drow and werewolf deaths and abductions south to the Odenwald Mountains. For the last two nights, the five patrolled the city of Heidelberg, a favored haunt for Black Forest werewolves. Tonight, Neville Longbottom had been watching the _Wolfhaus_ pub for any signs of the drow. He missed his master. He missed his laboratory in England. He had made such tremendous strides in his life as a herbologist, and though he nowadays found himself in the position of Auror, it was his alchemical acumen that made him the proudest. For a brief moment—and with the exception of Christmas it was only ever for a single moment that he allowed himself to feel this—he missed the loving embrace of his parents.

Neville looked down at his hands and noticed that he had gripped his pub napkin tightly into the ball of his fist. He smiled, and set the napkin down. Neville was a gentle soul. He was a little scared, but he was no creature of destruction, and as proof of this to himself, he straightened out the napkin, pinched the corners flat, and gently placed his glass at its center. Cocking his head to the side, he observed that the glass was at the perfect center of the napkin. With a great sigh, Neville stood from his patio chair, grabbed his glass, and started into the pub. And a great light engulfed him.

Reza heard the explosion from three blocks away. Running down the cobblestone streets, Reza swung his wand out from its hiding place and charged toward the smoky intersection. Turning the corner sharply, he ran into a throng of pedestrians fleeing the scene. It took a moment for him to regain his footing, and was again on his way when a second explosion went off. _Must have been the gas main_, he thought. When he turned the final corner, he was shocked at the severity of the damage. Great billows of black smoke filled the rubble–strewn street, as several small fires began to escalate and threaten the neighboring buildings. No fire engines were yet at the scene. _Some may have survived the first explosion, but none could have survived the second one_, he thought. Yet two soot–covered bodies came crawling out of the smoke in the following moment. Reza approached the two and instinctively drug them away from the building. Neither of the now unconscious victims were Neville, and Neville was not in the growing crowd behind him. The drow had done their job; the _Wolfhaus_ had been firebombed, and Neville was nowhere to be found. Just then, Wilhelm could be seen running toward the _Wolfhaus_ from the opposite side of the street. "Reza!" he yelled. Reza could barely see him through the smoke and the small mob of people—there were about a dozen people now gathered around, ostensibly waiting for the fire engine.

Someone in the crowd yelled, "Da! Ein Mann mit einem Mädchen!" Reza spun around to see, low to the ground, a soot–covered Neville slowly making his way out of the flames with a little girl in his arms. Neville took the girl's Yankees baseball cap off her face and fanned the air around her as he hustled toward the bystanders. "It's a miracle!" shouted one of the onlookers. The little girl ran to the two people Reza had assisted, and hugged them as they lay on the ground. The mother reacted to her daughter's embrace and smiled.

Neville stammered a bit, "I was…there was…is the girl ok?" Reza barked back, "Yes, Neville. We've got to get you out of here! I just saw Wilhelm." Neville continued, "It wasn't the fire or smoke, it was…the explosion. I could…barely spit out the…flame-freezing charm." Neville's white eyes widened in panic across his sooted visage. "Reza, why is Wilhelm on the ground?" Reza spun around to see Wilhelm's dead body lying next to a parked car, his neck covered in blood. Amidst the smoke, panic, and din of people, fire, and collapsing walls, a woman next to Reza could be heard screaming at the sight of the dead wizard. Reza raised his wand high as Neville quickly put his back to Reza's, mimicking Reza's ready position. Neville was now aware of roughly fifteen drow charging through the cover of smoke and into the crowded intersection from three different directions. A glancing turn revealed that Reza was now engaged in hand–to–hand combat with one of the drow. Reza was unarmed while the drow wildly swung a bone–handled knife at his chest and arms. In horror, Neville watched as drow began openly attacking the muggles. By then, two polizei had made it on foot to the scene—one began shooting at the drow, while the other took aim with his baton. Neville took aim at the drow behind the gunman and fired off several non–verbal _stupefy_ spells. The cop stopped shooting and looked at Neville in shock, just long enough to be taken down by an unseen drow to his right. Neville turned toward the unarmed muggle crowd.

Neville took out two, then three drow who had descended upon the shocked onlookers. The polizei guns then started shooting into the crowd from behind Neville; Neville turned to see the two officers down and their guns taken by the maniacal drow who now had Neville in their sights. Reza countered as quickly as he could with a Persian spell that caused the gunpowder in the guns' bullets to explode. Neville had never heard Farsi uttered before, and, in the midst of the carnage, it intrigued him. Reza smiled at Neville, but his eyes were quickly averted as he flung his hands and arms over his face. Neville turned to see a police car silently hurtling over his head. Covered in ashes, having had the wind knocked out of him, battered, bruised, shot at, and a little bit singed, a defeated Neville watched in horror as a gorgon joined the chaos of their little corner of the world.

—

Emma didn't know what "obliviate" meant. In fact, now that she thought back to the word, she didn't really know how to say it either. She also didn't understand why Mommy didn't remember the monsters or the people who turned into big, mean dogs. After the big snake–monster came, the little monsters took the two wizards and the dogs with them. The people who were awake were scared until the burned girl who came with the firemen whispered something to everyone. But not Emma. After the wizard carried her out of the fire—which didn't burn her—she hid under a car and waited for the little monsters to go away, which they did. And now, riding in the truck with the doctors, Mommy said they were going back to New York, which is what Emma wanted to do anyway.

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A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing


	8. The Beanshìdh

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

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CHAPTER 8: The Beanshìdh

Brodgar, Orkney Islands, Scotland

Wednesday, the First Evening

Draco had not gone to Harry. Much to his surprise, the crusted blood on Harry's glasses had channeled the ring of urobara to the Burrow, just as Draco's blood had sent him to Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire. Outside the Burrow, when they were alone, Ginny demanded that Draco test her blood on the ring. At first, Draco resisted along the usual battle lines—it felt odd to give in to Ginny, and Draco wasn't sure what the ring would do. But Ginny's persistence broke through. "I would crawl through the fiery gates of Perdition for Harry—carrying this baby if I had to!" she exclaimed. But Ginny's pinprick of blood had had no effect on the ring. Draco went nowhere. After a brief exchange of questions between Harry's wife and his schoolyard nemesis, that, like the ring, also ultimately led nowhere, Ginny decided to confide in Hermione.

_Ophions_. Ginny knew she recognized that name, but that information came at a price. Hermione had made it clear that if she had her way, the Ministry of Magic would be brought into this. Once she was dealt with, Ginny took Draco quickly down to the cellar and tore into her father Arthur's potions collection. These were the potions that were too valuable to use or barter, potions he had collected on his many travels. Ginny knew this catalogue well.

Years ago, her older brothers, being not so bright, had asked her to dig through Arthur's collection and explain the value of his eclectic alchemical collection. They even took a few with them. And then a few more. And so on. This was how they started their shop, _Weasley's Wizard Wheezes_. They broke into the collection so often that eventually Arthur started putting cheap gag–locks on the door. Springing these locks could have any one of a series of effects. One of the locks, when broken, caused everyone standing in the cellar to breakout into hives; another lock caused the room to fill with a putrid gas. Seeing his children so ineptly conspiring against him always made him laugh. After Fred died, Arthur stopped putting the locks on.

Immediately associating the potions' closet with her deceased brother, and in the unnerving panic that she might also lose her Harry, Ginny broke down in tears. She instinctively received the hug that immediately came toward her. It took a moment or two for her to realize it was Draco who was consoling her. _Would she ever embrace Harry again?_ she silently thought. She turned and continued to look through the collection. There! _Ophic Powder_—from their family trip to Egypt. Arthur had been particularly proud of this find. He had said it had historical value, which was the main reason it bore no interest for the brothers Weasley in their search for goofy potions and practical jokes.

Gazing now into the sunset, Draco considered his present location. Because the sun was a little more advanced in its setting than it had been at the Burrow, he felt sure he was nearly on the same line of longitude, if not a little further east. His latitudinal distance, he was totally unsure of. It was still warm for summer, so that ruled out the southern hemisphere altogether. Spain? The topography wasn't right—too rocky. Scotland maybe. A pale moon, low and full on the horizon, portended of shadowy creatures and sinister deeds.

When the waters to the west swallowed the last rays of sunlight, a horrific shriek carried across the beach to the north. Draco ran across the dunes and grassy patches toward the source of the scream. As the warm hues of day receded into the westerly skies, the earth was covered in the bluish light of the _magic hour_. Neither day nor night, the magic hour—called _dusk_ by muggles—was a short period at the beginning and end of the day when the borders between the magic and mundane worlds were at their thinnest. Draco was now aware of a chorus of voices wailing across the hills. "Ophic powder," Ginny had told him not an hour ago, "is the cremated remains of some foul creature. I don't know of what, but if anything can find Ophions, it's this." When smeared over the ring, the ophic powder alone did nothing. But when Draco mixed the powder with his blood, he instantly apparated to this beach. Where he was, he did not know.

Climbing over the last hill, he could now see down the beach for a couple of miles. The landscape collapsed into an isthmus, flanked by two great bodies of water. In the distance there were muggle tourists stumbling around in the rocky terrain, flashing photos of each other. Along the isthmus was a megalithic circle—a series of over two dozen giant pale stones, each between 2 and 5 meters in height. As the incomprehensible wailing had stopped, Draco watched the muggles scurry around the isthmus, some pointing to the megaliths while others observed their wristwatches in boredom. Tour buses in the background were turning on their headlights and backing away. Slowly, Draco made his way down the beach, observing the muggles as if they were caged animals in a zoo. Nearly all of them were British and in relatively modern clothes. The buses, clothes, and English reassured Draco that he was still somewhere in Britain.

Walking through the crowd, various muggles could be heard going on about the history of Scotland. An elderly chap wearing an RAF veteran's cap kept referencing the _Ring of Brodgar_ to his wife. That must be where he was—that would put him on Mainland, Orkney, in the Orkney Islands of northeast Scotland. The muggles for the most part ignored Draco. One woman looked disapprovingly at his black cloak. There were a few muffled voices from senior muggles as he walked between them. An older man in a dark blue blazer with a sprig of heather on his lapel and whisky on his breath said a bit too loudly as Draco passed him, "Aye, it takes all kinds. The New Agers come to Orkney with their fancy costumes—playing make–believe. Always gives me a laugh!" Draco wasn't sure what a _New Ager_ was, but assumed the _costume_ comment meant that once again a muggle could always be counted on to be woefully ignorant and useless. Pressing forward, Draco tried to ignore the strange looks he was receiving from the muggle tourists. Then, all at once, the intense wailing began again, only now it was much louder. Perplexed, he turned to see the muggles acknowledge the wailing, but they all just continued to talk. The noise was deafening, but Draco still could not localize it. Focusing himself totally on the voices now, he thought they were coming from the isthmus, and started to run toward the distant megaliths.

Though the slow shrieking voices remained discordant, Draco could now make out a little bit of their verse,

"E'er proud

an bonnie be,

Malkin–Grim

we sing fer ye."

Draco was almost upon them now. He cautiously approached the stone circle. Against the backdrop of the fiery sunset, the long jagged stones appeared as the teeth of a great beast. Crossing in front of one of the stones, he was startled to find the source of the voices a mere 20 meters in front of him. Out of thin air, they seemed to appear. Draco was at first confused to see what appeared to be three breathtaking maidens, each taking a turn to agonizingly scream at the top of her lungs. But a moment later, it was clear that they had no lungs to fill—their lithe bodies of alabaster skin and taut features were, in fact, partially translucent. Were they ghosts? Each thunderous, raspy verse was hurled toward the blood–orange sunset slowly and painfully.

Whaur ye gaun,

Malkin–Grim?

We sing fer ye,

a dowie hymn."

Draco had almost no knowledge of the Scots' language. This far north, away from London and the modern world, it was said that much remained of the _old ways_. After all, even wizards told campfire stories. As impossible as it was to believe, there were yet creatures left in the far corners of the world that persisted long after the world had forgotten they were there. Beneath tattered ivory rags—more like memories than garments—these striking creatures convulsed and keened their bodies as they howled their deafening madness.

"_Two_ mages

dou Ah mourn fer,

_wan_ passed,

an _wan _Ah see n'more!"

The creature to her right responded,

"Albus Brian,

whaur ye gaun?

We sang doun'n Glescae,

an danced 'n the sun. "

In the blustery Orkney air, their flowing, honey–auburn locks followed their elegant faces as smoke might pursue a moving flame in the dark. Draco sensed they were both a part of nature and apart from it—as if their presence were a profanity that the earth had spat out long ago. Their nimble limbs and fingers cursed the air, as they raised their voices again and again. Totally forgetting that he was positioned where he could clearly be seen, Draco found he had involuntarily been walking the entire time toward the three. Or perhaps drawn to them. He wasn't sure. He was, however, now aware of what they were. They were _banshee_—the _bean–shìdh_ of Scotland who mourned the dead and the dying.

"Whaur ye gae

Malkin–Grim?

Hadda nown,

wedda danced again!"

One of them turned and stared wordlessly at Draco, as her sisters continued their cacophony. Draco was at once paradoxically aware that, while her torn dress contained no secret from him, the intensity of her eerie, azure–eyed stare nearly reduced him to a state of mindless terror. It had been a long time since Draco had felt this emotion, and he felt it now through every fiber of his body—he was absolutely _terrified_. Draco fought through his fear, "I know what you are—banshee! Who has died? Who do you mourn for? I'm not afraid of you!" The banshee staring at Draco said nothing. Meanwhile, the banshee staring eastward let out a piercing shriek,

"Sassenach, faire!

We mourn fer ye.

Fer mirkness yer

companion be."

The _banshee_, it was taught to Draco years ago, exist beyond the border of life and death. No creature on earth had power over them that they didn't let have power over them. Moreover, unlike dementors, they were also immune to spellcraft. Just then, Draco was aware of an elder muggle and his adult son entering the stone circle from his left. At first, Draco gestured for them to leave. But the muggles seemed to neither see nor hear the banshee. The elder was being consoled by the younger muggle. Draco extended his cloaked hand, "Hey, you two need to go now!" One of the banshee put up its hand and intoned,

"Sarah! Sarah Macintyre!

A bonnie dochtie lass,

Witter bodach besider,

She did quietly pass."

Unaware of the banshee in front of him, the man addressed by the banshee began to weep uncontrollably as his son pulled him away from Draco and the circle. Draco watched the elder Macintyre respond, "When Sarah died last year, it was as if all the light had left the world…what is _wrong_ with me?"

Draco stormed up to the creatures pretending to be alive and demanded answers, "Why are you here, banshee? Why have I been brought here?" He gestured to his hand, "Can you tell me about this ring?" Draco began to take the ring off to bring it closer to the banshee, but the moment it came off his finger he was tormented with visions of the suffering and death of his parents, wife, and child.

"Sassenach, nae!

The ring'll remain.

'Tis aulder than

yer Malfoy name!"

Draco immediately slipped the ring back on. Apparently the ring dampened the effect of magical creatures—or at least of the banshee. The westerly sister shouted at Draco, as if in great pain,

"The bairn o' the glen

draws heavy breath!

Gae the nou,

faes yer daith!"

The banshee closest to Draco then charged toward Draco with unnatural speed and grace. Snatching him by the collar off the ground with her left arm, she hastily carried Draco passed the great stones to the water's edge. As she carried him, she cried in a low, thundering voice,

"Dinna fear daith,

Sassenach mage.

Fear no cratur, pouer,

spel or sage."

Draco could see nothing but the inky sky above him, as he was forcibly conveyed away from the stone circle and the other banshee. His captor raised her other hand toward the stars. A small stream of ophic powder came spiraling out of Draco's pouch, past the banshees' bare breast and encircling her statuesque arm, coalescing into a spinning, coin–sized mound. Draco attempted to squirm, but the banshee's grip on him was total. The banshee lifted his pliant body vertically as one might lift a shirt out of a basket.

She smiled at him, closing her eyes amid the intoxicating smell of his living flesh. With the powder spinning in midair, the banshee lowered her lucent hand and gaze onto Draco's chest. Her hand was cold as it gently swept through the folds of his cloak. Draco's arms and legs dangled uselessly in the air as the banshee probed his body. Her lithe fingers and sharp fingernails came to rest against the skin above Draco's beating heart. "_Life_!" the banshee exclaimed with a wicked cackle. Though he wished to, Draco's body betrayed him, as he was unable to resist the banshee at all. Slowly, she pushed her steely fingernails into his chest. Waves of pain flowed over Draco as a shock of blood–red pulsed in the alabaster face of his unnatural master.

The stunning banshee looked back at her two sisters and reveled in a smile most maleficent. She withdrew her blooded hand and grasped the magical airborne powder–cluster. Her bare chest heaved as an opaque wave of fawn–pink bloomed from her bloody hand across her breasts and down her milky abdomen. Draco was now acutely aware that his own chest and extremities were cold and numb—possibly from the loss of blood, the precarious position of his body, or just out of sheer panic. He was now, as ever, completely at her mercy, having no power over her, not even the power to grasp her song.

The banshee dropped Draco beside the Orkney shore. With her left hand, she traced her statuesque neck lightly with her long fingers, causing a small, razor–sharp slit just above her collarbone. The fleshy hue that, moments ago, washed over her seemed now to retreat toward her wound. A gentle trickle of bluish–red fluid escaped her wound, as the rest of her body faded into its previously ghostly state. Her banshee sisters behind her shrieked in agony at the sight of this. With a single, poised swipe of her hand, she cleaned the banshee blood from her chest and combined it with the mud of the ophic powder and Draco's own blood. Her powerful, lithe hand trembled at the intermingling of the powerful ingredients, as it could hardly contain the primordial magic inside. The look of satisfaction she had earlier was now absent from her focused visage. She stormed toward the grounded Draco. She grabbed him by his ringed hand and a massive electric charge pulsed through Draco's arm. The mud of blood and powder was having a dynamic magical effect. It felt like lightening in his veins, teeth, and his toes. With her terrific grip on his hand, she lifted him up from the ground and began to swing him clockwise around her—once, then twice, as she commanded, "Gae the nou! Gae tae those tha took our wean!" And she flung him far into the watery depths of the Loch of Stenness.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing


	9. Parseltongue

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

* * *

CHAPTER 9: Parseltongue

The Island of Aeaea off the coast of Greece

Wednesday Afternoon

Travel across the ancient ley lines had several complications. First, unlike the instantaneous effects of flue powder, ley lines could take hours or even days to cross. Secondly, unlike the countless flue locations modern wizards were accustomed to, ley lines were along fixed paths, most of which led nowhere a modern wizard wanted to go. Thirdly, only one wizard could travel along a ley line at one time—making them far less accessible to a party than port keys. Finally, ley line travel was a lost magical form—almost no modern wizard knew how to traverse them, and even if they had the knowledge, they probably wouldn't possess the exotic, necessary ingredients. But then, the Gorgon was no modern creature. It had been evening when the Gorgon began her journey to the island. Now, it was late afternoon of the following day.

The Gorgon had returned to Soran to present her with news of the capture of fresh wizards. Such had been Soran's command, and the Gorgon was compelled to obey. The Gorgon approached Soran's court in quiet, reverent obedience. It had been nearly six hundred years since the Gorgon had been free to roam the Earth. Unable to kill her, her captors sealed her away underground. Soran put an end to all that. Turning the corner toward the throne room, the Gorgon covered her snake–riddled head with a black hood—her fiery red eyes just barely perceptible through the material. Coming now to the throne, the Gorgon knelt before Soran.

"What news from the north, Gorgon?" The finely dressed house elf next to Soran repeated the words in Greek.

"Master, I was able to take two wizards alive in Heidelberg," The house elf translated for Soran.

"What wizards?"

"Reza of Qom and Neville Longbottom of England."

Soran seemed intrigued. "Do what you will with this Reza fellow. Kill him if you like, or have the Drow ransom him back to his people. But bring Longbottom to me. He could prove useful." Soran leaned back in her throne. "The Dragon Queen asks me to convey her thanks to you for all your efforts, Gorgon." The Gorgon lifted her head just slightly under the black hood. "Not yet," replied Soran. The Gorgon lowered her head even further than it had been before, her great weight pressing against her knelt knee. "Is there any news from England about Draco Malfoy?"

The Gorgon cocked her head, unsure as to why Soran continued to ask about him. "No, Master. No news from England. We still have not heard back from Theodore Nott."

"No matter. You have done well. You may approach the throne now." The Gorgon lumbered toward Soran at an almost startling pace. Once within reach, the Gorgon again knelt and bowed her head, this time holding her hands together and high above the rest of her body. Soran took a silver chalice and with exacting care she spilled a light, cream–colored liquid into the Gorgon's hands. The Gorgon then lowered her hands quite carefully. "Take it out of the throne room," chided Soran. The Gorgon obeyed, and, once out of Soran's line of sight, she greedily rubbed her hands across her mouth and face. The venom of the Dragon Queen was the finest narcotic a gorgon could drink and yet live. While it did harm the body and mind over time, it was nonetheless a potent concoction that gave the Gorgon an otherwise unattainable sense of physical and emotional pleasure.

From the opposite end of the room, Soran quietly stepped away from the throne and walked through the ossified Byzantine tunnels of the Pythian Temple. The windowless walkways seemed to creak and pulse with putrefied, dark magic. The thickly carved stone floor felt cold through her shoes, and the breezeless air hung still as death. The walls, once adorned with colorful Greek mosaics, were now covered in dust and decay. The Ophions didn't seem to mind, and Soran had grown accustomed to the environment. Over the past several years, her skin had become pasty white. The circles under her eyes betrayed sleepless months of planning and research. But temple life had also given her Ophic attendants who doted on her every desire. Her hair was brushed for an hour each night. Her body washed in newly–rendered animal soap. And elegant, silk dresses that made her feel like a queen arrived at her quarters with great frequency. Soran had become accustomed to life in the temple. When the boy–who–lived was finally broken, Soran could then realize her ultimate dream.

She arrived at the cell where Harry Potter lay sleeping. Potter had been the guest of Soran and the Dragon Queen for more than 12 days now. Soran opened the peephole in the door just wide enough to see the occupant. Two small lanterns gave enough light along the walls and floor to reveal several grey vipers, writhing along the cell floor in quiet equanimity. Potter was in the center of the room, completely unconscious. With a loud thud, Soran closed the ancient peephole and called one of the acolytes over. The handpicked, red–robed eunuchs came from across Europe and the Mediterranean to serve in the court of the Dragon Queen. The nearest of them now soundlessly glided toward Soran, his shorn head ever–bowed to the floor so as not to risk eye contact. Soran barked, "Get the others and prepare him for me."

Soran then raised her wand and attempted a simple _lumos_ spell. Even from just outside of the cell, her spellcraft had no effect. Potter's cell walls were covered from top to bottom with fresh werewolf blood, effectively creating a non–magical vacuum around Harry Potter. No magical creature could enter. No spell could be cast. If even an elf attempted to apparate into the room, he'd splinch against the vacuum like a muggle in outer space. No, Harry was needed in the next room—once he'd been properly prepared.

Night and day, the acolytes worked tirelessly to ensure that all of Soran's requests were met precisely. She'd killed a handful of their number over the years, and was not to be disappointed. Five acolytes tied Harry at the wrists, knees, and ankles. Despite his vain protests, he was gagged with cloth soaked in werewolf's blood. Effectively blind from the absence of his glasses, Potter was only vaguely aware of what was happening. The best he could put it together, he was being led down a hallway to another room. The dank hallway smelled like a crypt and had a resounding echo. His throat felt constricted and dried out. He was carried by his arms, which had little feeling in them, but his bare toes burned as they scraped along the stone floor behind him. His right eye felt swollen and his head and spine throbbed with intense pain. His stomach felt tight, which made it hard to breathe. He was vaguely aware of blood, drool, or both, seeping out of the rancid cloth in his mouth and across his chest. He did not know where he was, why he was there, or how long he'd been there. He just wanted the pain to go away.

He faded out again. When he came to, he found that he was in the office of the new headmaster, Dolores Umbridge. Dolores picked a piece of lint off her soft pink blouse and looked up smartly at Potter, smilingly addressing him. "Harry," Headmaster Umbridge confided. "You know what we want."

"I really don't know what you want, Headmaster."

"Harry, Harry. We know all about your little escapades with your friends," Umbridge intimated. "And we want you to know that we don't blame you at all."

"You don't?"

Harry turned to see Albus Dumbledore at his right. "No, Harry. Of course not. We know that Weasley and Granger put you up to the whole thing."

"They did?" Harry squinted, trying to remember.

"Yes, Harry," said Umbridge. "Yes, but it's time to put all that aside. Why don't you do us all a big favor now and make things right?"

"Make things right?" asked Harry. Harry turned to see the collection of kitten plates on Headmaster Umbridge's wall, but they weren't there. "How do I make things right?"

"You know," said Dumbledore. Smilingly, he stretched out his left hand, "You know just what we need, Harry."

Umbridge jumped in, "Harry, you've been a naughty boy, and we just want to make things right. We need you to cooperate with us now." Harry heard a kitten meow behind his right ear. Turning to see the kitten, he now saw Dolores Umbridge's plate collection.

Dumbledore stepped closer to Harry and locked his brown eyes with Harry's. "Harry… Pay attention. We need you to concentrate." Gesturing again to his left, Dumbledore seemed to be showing Harry a door. "You need you to walk through the door now."

"Walk through the door, Harry," said Umbridge.

"Walk through the door, and all will be forgiven," said Dumbledore.

Harry closed his eyes and lowered his head into his outstretched hands. "I really don't understand this. I just… I just can't get my head around it."

"There's nothing to understand, Harry," said Umbridge. "Just walk through the door. I promise you'll be right as rain." She stopped and grinned ear–to–ear, "You'll just feel so good making the right decision."

Harry stammered, "I…" Just then, for a moment, he saw Ginny on the porch of the Burrow. She had her mother's old blanket wrapped around her, and her eyes were wet with tears as her auburn hair danced against the grey sky behind her. Then she was gone.

Harry looked down to his right hand and saw that he had the snitch. What an incredible feeling—to win the big game! But it puzzled him that he did not feel good about winning. Ron and Hermione stood next to him, cheering him on. "You did it, Harry!" exclaimed Ron.

"I did?"

"Yeah, mate! You caught the snitch! You won!"

Harry was surprised. It was a great honor to win. And he was only in his first year! But, that made no sense. "Ron," asked Harry, "Why are you in quidditch gear? You don't play until fifth year."

"What are you blabbering on about, you silly little man? Everyone's expecting you now! Let's leave the field, heroes! The exit's right over here."

Hermione stepped in close to Harry. He could feel her breath on his cheek and her chest against his. "You know Harry," she giggled, "We have a lot of celebrating to do!" She traced her fingernail down his chest. Harry's view shifted focus from Hermione's finger to Ron's laughter to the quidditch field exit. Beyond the exit, his friends were preparing a great celebration. Neville was there. And Hagrid. And his mates from Gryffindor. And Professor Dumbledore. Hermione then took his hand. She was dressed in the dress she had worn to the Yule Ball. "Come on, Harry. Let's go to the party! It'll be fun!"

But Harry didn't feel like fun. He felt empty. He felt alone. Despite seeing his friends—no, he just couldn't put it together. The answers seemed just outside of his reach.

"Don't," pleaded the sad but familiar voice behind him.

Hermione looked joylessly behind Harry. Ron took his quidditch helmet and threw it on the ground. Neville, just beyond the gate, turned away from Harry.

"Don't do it, Harry."

Harry turned to see Ginny staring away from him, still wrapped in the old threadbare blanket. "Ginny, don't what?"

"Don't do this. Stop thinking of me."

"But I can't help it. Here you are."

Ginny looked down at him, "The cost is too great, Harry. It nearly killed you last time."

"I can't help it. I don't know where I am or what is happening to me, but I know that I love you." Harry looked back toward his friends who had all gathered around him on the quidditch field, obscuring the exit. Two or three hundred wizards stood expectantly staring at Harry. "It may be the last thing I know, the last thing that makes me _me_, but I know that you and I love each other."

Dolores Umbridge looked to Albus Dumbledore, "We're losing him."

Dumbledore looked to the chosen one, "Harry, you're dying. This will be the end if you don't come with us right now."

Harry stood up and smiled. "You know I'd do anything for any of you. But I can't go with you." He turned to Ginny and took her hand.

Ginny was delighted, "Where shall we go?"

Suddenly they were standing in a lush, picturesque meadow. "Oh, I love this place, Harry!" Ginny's slender body was draped by a simple white summer dress, her honey–auburn hair brushed back from her soft, carefree smile. She embraced Harry as he took in the smell of her lilac–scented skin and slid his cheek against hers.

Harry whispered in her ear, "This place is mine. The others can't come here." As Harry kissed her, his chest filled with a great joy. The sun bloomed overhead and the smell of dewy grass and meadow flowers swept over him. The entire world was that meadow. And then it was gone.

The light above faded and the world went dark, darker, and then nothing. Harry collapsed in an intense pain. He looked around but his glasses were missing. He was seated in a chair, with his hands tied behind him and his legs tied to the chair legs. His chest was wet and cool, but the rest of him was hot and in great agony.

"Your pride brought you to this, Harry Potter," Soran said. "I need you to cooperate. The _cruciatus curse_, while dulled by you drinking the werewolf's essence, will eventually break your mind. I need you _willing_. I need your parseltongue so that I can command the Ophion Army! The ring only let's us understand them, they hear nothing from us." Harry lifted his head slightly, not able to speak through the gag in his mouth though his mouth did twitch a little.

"Did you have something to say?" Harry nodded heavily.

Soran removed the gag. Harry lifted his blurry gaze to meet hers, his sweat–matted head bobbing slightly. "Dumbledore had blue eyes."

"What?"

"Blue eyes. Dumbledore…had blue eyes," He grinned. Soran grit her teeth and slapped him violently across the face with a snap.

"What on earth does that mean?" Soran leaned into Harry's face, pulling his hair back with her left hand and whispered, "I will _kill_ you. You _can_ die, you know. It was written that you would kill Voldemort. Nothing says you live now. I will feed you to the hogs outside and drink wine from your empty skull." She threw his head back. "I know for a fact that you are a parselmouth. You will submit to my will or so help me you will die, Harry Potter."

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing


	10. The Gorgon

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

* * *

CHAPTER 10: The Gorgon

Birka, Sweden

A Fortnight Past

August the 3rd

"It's a bit odd, idn't it? Seeing werewolves out when the moon isn't full." Ron Weasley, a nervous though fun–loving child, had learned over the years to repress or deflect his fear through irony. While certainly not as savvy as his entrepreneurial brothers, Ron was nonetheless the wittiest among the new Aurors.

Professor McGonagall took note of the observation—one that she and Shacklebolt had discussed previously. As a personal favor, Shacklebolt had requested of the lauded professor her expert appraisal of the newly–christened Aurors. Without formal N.E.W.T. exams, there was much the Ministry still didn't know about Harry's abilities, beyond the protection of his mother and his proven courage against Voldemort. "Yes, Mr. Weasley. It is odd indeed. What can you surmise from this, Harry?"

Harry cleared his throat and attempted a clear, focused voice in the presence of the massacred creatures splayed across ancient megaliths. "The werewolves must have been turned magically, Professor."

"Right you are, Mr. Potter." McGonagall said without a hint of partiality in her voice. "I do not know of a method of doing this in such large numbers. Mr. Longbottom, what does your herbological training tell you?"

Neville was already standing over one of the corpses, taking samples for later examination. "Rigor mortis has already set in and past. This is consistent with the report we received in London. This happened about three days ago."

Heloise Güring interrupted, "Professor, I obliviated the few locals who keep up the property, and the area has been protected magically from muggle observers."

McGonagall smiled briefly in Heloise's direction, never taking her eyes off Neville. "Thank you, Frau Güring. I'm sure you've been quite thorough in your preparation, and we appreciate your assistance. Minister Shacklebolt and Dekan Christiansen have been friends a long time now. We are happy to oblige Herr Christiansen's request, given all that is happening at Durmstrang these days."

Harry turned to Heloise, "How is the investigation at Durmstrang going?"

"The plot against the Dekan and his dosenter remains unsolved. Many recent graduates and even a few upperclassmen have been implicated. Several of the students and alumni most interested in the Dark Arts have gone missing. It's been a growing problem."

Neville raised his voice over the discussion, "Professor, you're gonna want to come see this."

"What is it, Mr. Longbottom?" asked McGonagall as she briskly walked over to the cadaver Neville had been studying.

"This werewolf has no blood in it. Something bled the thing dry to the bone."

"Vampires?" asked a half–smirking Ron. Neville silently rolled his eyes. He wasn't sure why Ron was out here except that he had been Harry's best mate in school. Neville had spent the last six years researching herbology under the supervision of McGonagall. It pained him to see others acting informally around his respectable master.

"Not this far north," reassured Heloise.

"Let's not rule anything out just yet," chided McGonagall. "But your point is well taken." McGonagall stared off into the lake in the distance. "There are many magical creatures in the north."

"Shh! What's that noise?" asked Harry as he turned his head and put out his hands.

"What?" asked Ron, oblivious to the _fiendfyre_ spell roiling its way toward he and Heloise.

Harry looked up when he detected a slight change in the moonlight on the ground. "Ron, look out!" Ron dodged forward to knock Heloise out of the way, but he was a moment too late. The two wizards would have been hit directly by the _fiendfyre_, if it weren't for McGonagall's quick thinking.

_"Aqua Eructo!"_ cried McGonagall. Huge waterspouts out of Lake Mälaren suddenly reached out like giant tendrils, gripping and hammering back the _fiendfyre_ travelling over the land toward the party of wizards and witches. The lake water took most of the damage, but both Ron and Heloise sustained second–degree burns. Just then, a small army of Drow descended on the Aurors, firing their rifles and swinging their machetes high in the air.

_"Stupefy! Stupefy!"_ Harry cried, as bullets flew past him.

A scalded, shaking Ron took aim of the red–robed conjurer who had cast the _fiendfyre_ spell. _"Deprimo!"_ The laughing dark wizard began to choke as his ribcage compressed in on itself, crushing his internal organs. His accomplice threw him to the ground and began administering counter–spells. Ron was not deterred and began to advance while Neville, Harry, and Heloise were attacking the Drow.

_This will be a hard–won fight, but one the Aurors are equal to,_ thought McGonagall, when out of the water came what could only be a Gorgon. The Drow cheered as the mighty serpentine creature rose out of the water and began to move toward the Aurors. McGonagall knew this would be the end of the battle—that they would all doubtless share the same fate as the werewolves here. The eructo spell must have alerted the Gorgon to their presence. McGonagall knew what had to be done. She turned to Neville. Quietly she intoned, "You're in charge here, Neville. Find the truth and report back to Shacklebolt." And with that, she raised her hand and her wand to direct the water–encased _fiendfyre_ toward the Gorgon. The Gorgon laughed a deep, menacing chuckle, for the Gorgon did not know what was coming next. McGonagall was not sending the _fiendfyre_ at the Gorgon—that would have had no effect. Instead, McGonagall took hold of the roiling _fiendfyre_ ball and, leaning back for a moment's momentum, she fired both herself and the _fiendfyre_ into the Gorgon in a massive cloud of white smoke as a missile might descend into a large green tank.

The thunderous clash of gorgon, fiendfyre, and master wizard produced a violent explosion of water, air, and flame. The gorgon subsumed the _fiendfyre_ as soon as it reached her. Though exquisitely painful, the _fiendfyre_ could not kill her. As the two wrestled underwater, McGonagall did her best to drag the gorgon to the bottom of the lakebed.

The gorgon continued to claw and wrestle with the witch, the two writhing and wriggling as they continued to descend into the darkness. McGonagall had worked her way behind the gorgon, holding the gorgon's arms up as she stood on the creature's back. The snakes along the gorgon's head were not active underwater, and nestled benignly against the gorgon's skull. Their surroundings were becoming increasingly dark. McGonagall wasn't sure how long she could survive underwater after the first few minutes of descent.

Underneath the fighting pair, seven water nixies could be seen swimming up and toward the gorgon. McGonagall attempted to yell toward them and exhausted the last of her breath doing so. The nixies were expert swimmers and shot toward the gorgon with amazing precision and speed. They took the gorgon by the limbs and swam with great ferocity toward the bottom of the lake. As McGonagall drifted into unconsciousness, she could hear the distant banshee lamenting her fall.

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A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing


	11. The Woman

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

* * *

CHAPTER 11: The Woman

The island of Souda, off the coast of Crete

Thursday, the Second Day

"How do you feel?"

Draco was lying on a soft white cot under a light–brown canvas sunshade, framed by a cloudless azure sky. The salty breeze carried the sound of crashing waves in the distance. The sunshade was tethered to three palm trees at the edge of a tree line. Turning his head, Draco could see the tide gently receding. But there were other smells present with the sea air. He was slowly aware of the scent of fruit, grilled fish, and fresh baked bread from behind his head.

"Where am I?" Draco groaned to no one in particular. He felt groggy, but otherwise just fine—even rested. "Is this the Mediterranean?" he guessed.

"You are in the Mediterranean, yes." It was a woman's voice, low and almost musical. Her slight accent was hard to place. Maybe South of France. Maybe Italian. Her English had a mid–Atlantic overtone—not quite American, not quite British. She spoke clearly and confidently. Wherever this was, Draco presumed she was in charge. At that moment, Draco looked to his feet and realized he was wearing a white linen tunic and matching pants. He had been washed, changed and hydrated. Also, to his lament, he found that his wand, the ring, and the ophic powder were missing. His platinum wedding band remained on his finger.

"How long was I out?" Draco asked, attempting to sound nonchalant.

"How long have you been asleep? Almost fourteen hours," said the Woman. Following the sound of a cork _pop_, Draco could hear a glass being filled behind him. Though he felt physically able to move, Draco remained lying on the bed, staring at the sunshade above. It was symmetrical and he felt comforted beneath it.

"How do you feel?" the Woman again asked.

"I think I'm good. I feel good… Who are you?" Draco finally asked.

"Do you mean to ask me my name?" asked the Woman.

Draco sat up from the bed so he could lay eyes on the Woman. He swung his legs across the soft cotton sheets as he turned to meet the Woman's gaze. She looked to be in her mid–forties with flowing inky black hair and piercing blue eyes, framed by a sun–kissed face and neckline. Her spaghetti–strapped honeysuckle dress and carefree demeanor suggested a woman of great wealth and class. Draco recognized this woman as the kind of person who, in better days, his parents would have invited to the Manor. She was seated at a frosted glass patio table with a setting of fresh fruits and chilled wine in a silver bucket. Behind her was a simple, ultra–modern bungalow—constructed of clean diagonal lines, spacious windows and warm earth–tones that flowed seamlessly with the rest of the beach. Now that Draco was observing his host, he was a little taken back.

Outclassed and confused, Draco acknowledged, "Thank you for whatever you've done."

The Woman shrugged her tan shoulders and continued to eat the soufflé on the fine china plate before her. The way she handled her silverware suggested time in a finishing school. The only other person Draco knew to have such manners and poise was his mother, Narcissa.

The Woman laughed a little to herself. "I pulled you out of the sea, kiddo." She paused to take a sip of white wine. "You were half dead." She noticed her guest eyeballing the wine and said self–satisfied to her glass, "Domaine Anne Gros Bourgogne. Ninety-eight." She then gently set the glass down. "Would you care for something to eat, Draco?"

"How do you know my name?" Draco asked as he slid off the bed and walked the few feet to the table. The mosaic tile was cool to the touch.

The Woman had her eyes closed and was shaking her head in silent joy. As Draco began to sit, his host was sliding a now empty fork from her rouge lips. "Mmm, mmm. This soufflé is divine! Draco, you must taste the soufflé." Draco's empty stomach was now gnawing mercilessly at him. He had only a few days' rations in his kit—wherever that now was—but he had not had real food in several days.

"Thank you, this looks amazing—truly."

The Woman continued, "It takes a lot of patience and practice to make a great soufflé, Draco. You have to get the crème pâtissière just right. Have you ever made a soufflé?"

"No. I can't say that I have."

The Woman cocked her head to the side and smiled sheepishly. "No, I suppose not with all of those house elves running around, doing your bidding all day. Do you cook at all, Draco?" Her gaze now lifted to meet his.

Draco started to show a little mock offense, half–smiling at the oddness of the occasion, "Now, look, I don't know where you're getting your information, but Astoria and I…"

"Do you love your wife?" the Woman interrupted, a forkful of egg hanging in the air. Her look was now deadly serious.

"WHAT!" Draco raised his voice.

"_Do_ you love your wife, Draco?" asked the Woman after she finished chewing.

"Yes! What the hell kind of a question is that? Yes! Of course! Why?" Draco paused as his color left his face. "Has something happened? Have you done something?"

"So, you know what love is, then?" asked the Woman as she leaned back in her rattan chair, swirling the chilled white wine in her glass. Draco stared at the Woman in utter puzzlement. He did not understand what was going on or why this Woman was asking such questions, but without his wand, he assumed something was amiss and did not wish to press his luck with outrage. Besides, he was invited to eat, and he was starving. His plate had a soufflé, fruit compote, buttered toast, sausages, sliced tomatoes, and a few things he could not readily identify but smelled delicious. He took the toast into his mouth and bit off a corner. The sweet taste of wildflower honey spilled over his tongue as the smell of light herbs filled his palate. The crisp golden surface belied the savory tenderness of the toast. Draco unknowingly closed his eyes and took in a deep sigh.

The Woman's smile could be heard through her words, "There's a Japanese ranch that raises special cattle to produce the sweet cream in this butter. The herbs are marjoram and rosemary. The marjoram is from this lovely village on the Nile, and the…"

"This is amazing!" Draco pronounced.

"Isn't it!" said the Woman, laughing.

Draco took a swig of the juice in his glass. _Delicious!_ He redoubled his composure and again faced the Woman. "In answer to your question, yes. I love my wife. She is everything to me." Draco continued to eat.

"I know she is Draco. I really do." The Woman set her wine glass down and wiped her mouth with the hand–ticked napkin from her lap. "Are you enjoying your breakfast?"

Draco nodded in the affirmative, listening intently to her words.

The Woman continued, "You asked me before who I was. But let me ask you who you are. Because everything you are doing right now depends on how you answer that question."

"I'm Draco Malfoy," Draco said between mouth–watering bites.

The Woman focused in on his eyes. "You are called 'Malfoy' because your father was a 'Malfoy.' Does that mean that you are your father? Your mother perhaps?" The Woman lifted her hand toward a full–length antique mirror sitting near the back entrance to the bungalow. Draco had not noticed it before. With a slight wave of her hand, the mirror's reflection gave way to a moving image of Astoria feeding Scorpius. Draco dropped his hand and stopped eating. He slowly stood out of his chair and approached the mirror as the Woman spoke. "Draco, I want you to listen to me. It's easy to love this delicious food. This is simply your appetite speaking. As you grew older, your sexual appetites led you to a few women—but it was Astoria whom you married. Why?"

Draco watched the mirror in stunned quietude. The sight of the two captivated him. "She was different," he said wistfully. Draco traced his fingers across the mirror. "She showed me a tenderness I had never known before."

"Draco, such love is beyond mere appetite. That love which Astoria opened to you is something more—something beyond mere animal passions."

Draco turned to the Woman, "What do you mean?"

The Woman then approached Draco as her dress gently billowed in the breeze. "The one who seeks you does so in a lust for power. Listen to me, Draco. This is a _false_ power. Real power is the ability to make your own decisions, to break free of the confines of a life that has seemingly been written for you. You are called 'Draco,' but you do not yet know who you are." The Woman now stood next to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. It felt warm and comforting to him. "You were very brave in the war with Voldemort. You chose to make a life with Astoria, and that has been difficult. But to take the next step on your journey, you must understand the choices you've made."

Draco focused on the Woman in front of him. Clearly, she was there to aid him—anyone who could make toast taste that good couldn't be all bad. He wanted to reassure her. "I know who I am."

The Woman pursed her lips together and after a pause of several moments told him, "Not yet you don't." She then raised her head slightly and in an even tone warned, "You will be tempted by the forces of darkness."

Draco wrinkled his brow and in honest doubt asked plainly, "And what if there is no darkness?"

The Woman walked back over to the table. "We need food, don't we? Yes! Of course, but delicious food is better! So, when we can—we indulge. Maybe in the midst of that indulgence, we take food from others. This is the nature of darkness. Astoria showed you something else—something selfless. Hold on to that, Draco. If you can hold on to that, you might just make it." The Woman gestured again toward the table as she sat down. "Despite what Voldemort may have told your family, power does not come out of a wand. Power comes from self–awareness and the casting aside of illusion and our baser instincts."

"That sounds like Dumbledore," Draco playfully muttered.

"Socrates. That comes from Socrates," the Woman said as she set an empty wine glass in front of Draco.

Draco smiled as he approached the table. Attempting some levity he added, "Are you sure about that?"

The Woman smiled as she poured the wine into Draco's glass. "Oh, yes. I am quite fond of Socrates." Setting the wine bottle back in its bucket, she continued, "I still remember the day I learned the Athenians had executed him." Draco sat slack jawed. The Woman shrugged, "Lose a war with Sparta and the whole place goes bananas."

"You…_remember_ the execution of Socrates?" asked Draco.

"I remember a lot more than that," the Woman laughed. "I also remember the way to the Underworld." Draco unknowingly betrayed a soft whimper under his breath—not quite a word or a complete thought; it was more a disorganized vocal recognition that he might soil himself. He attempted composure, but it was no use. "Underworld?" is all he could muster.

The Woman laughed to herself as she dipped a strawberry into a bowl of fresh crème. "We'll get back to that unpleasantness soon enough," she said with a wink, "but first we're going to discuss eros and its role in seeking the good."

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A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing


	12. Slytherin

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

* * *

CHAPTER 12: Slytherin

Alicante, Caliphate of Córdoba, Spain

_One Thousand Years Before the Battle of Hogwarts_

October 16, 989

Making his way through the courtyard, the youthful–looking warrior took a moment to reflect on the beautiful city beyond the ablution fountains. _The City of Lights_, as it was known in Arabic, boasted public gardens, hospitals, libraries, and lamp posts illuminating the night. Four days' ride north into French territory, and the city lights disappeared. From the White Cliffs of Dover, to the blue Danube, Europe lay in the darkness of night. After retrieving his riding boots and personal effects, Reza walked past the mosque's ornate gates and into the streets of Alicante.

"Salaam," a priest called to Reza as he passed and nodded his head. The priest bore the dress and language of an Arab, but the Bible and the green stole he carried so tightly in the crook of his arm gave him away.

"Pax tecum," Reza responded in liturgical Latin. The priest smiled but looked to the ground as he did so. Officially, the Caliphate tolerated the People of the Book, but the small disadvantages to their people and all the _Mozárabes_ increased by the day. Reza wondered if the French, Celts, or Saxons would be kinder to the Muslims if their roles were reversed. Reza tried to imagine a Saxon 'city' with public gardens, libraries, and city lights. He smiled incredulously as he made his way past the apothecary and toward the craggy stone building just beyond the jewelry market.

Reza had been sent an owl whose message indicated the time and place of his next meeting. The first meeting had been through an intermediary—a courier attempting to hire Reza for his research and acquisitionary acumen. Now it was time to meet his patron and give him the good news. Walking up the stairs, Reza could sense the magical wall of protection just after he passed it. _Oh good_, thought Reza, _it appears I'm expected_.

As Reza approached, the upstairs door opened on its own. The interior of the rented second–floor space was ghoulishly dark and unpleasant. Vivisected creatures lay suspended in liquid–filled vessels. The rooms, all curtained–off from the midday sun, were filled with an odor that brought to mind for Reza an alchemist's backroom, just behind a leather tanner, next to a graveyard. Reza moved through the room, thick with an eerie, invisible layer of dark magic. _Crystal_ _rain falls even from dark clouds_, Reza repeated in his head. Reza would stay long enough to get paid and then be on his way.

"May I offer you some tea?" the dark figure asked as he peered through the window at the passersby down the street.

This was the first time Reza had laid eyes on the Portuguese wizard. From head to toe, he was covered in pitch–black robes and finery. His round, naked head and slightly protruding ears gave him an almost simian appearance. His flowing white beard spread in wisps over his black cloak, obscuring the markings and gold jewelry lying beneath. His sunken grey eyes glinted in the sliver of afternoon light that shone in from the window, as he watched the penitent returning from their Friday prayers. His lean and withered hands had the appearance of decrepit claws from which protruded blue–black nails. Watching the gaunt wizard move from the window to the black armchair beside him, Reza observed the chimera of evil—seemingly part ape, part reptile—lurch to his seat. "Não obrigado, Senhor Slytherin." The phrase was enough to show Slytherin that Reza knew he was not Spanish. Reza leaned back in his chair and continued in Latin, "I'm fine."

"As you wish," intoned the old wizard through his ashen lips. "Tell me, where are you from? Berbers do not wear such vests and high boots. Nor do you appear to be part of the Arab aristocracy."

"I am from Persia," said Reza, tugging at his eastern leather cuirass.

"Ah, yes," responded the wizard. "Persia. The accent makes sense to me now," said Slytherin. "So, you owe your loyalty to the Abbasids in Damascus?"

Reza was used to this question and, frankly, a bit bored of it. "As I told your courier, Senhor Slytherin, my interests are purely academic." Slytherin's eyebrow rose slightly as Reza continued, "I am merely a collector and translator of ancient documents. I am not interested in the political intrigues of the Damascene Abbasids or the Umayyad ruling class here." Reza added after a moment, "All such things pass in time."

Salazar Slytherin picked up a goblet from the table and watched the drink swirl within. "Ancient Rome lasted over a thousand years before falling to barbarians. How long do you give Islamic Spain?"

"Al–Andalus?" Reza shrugged his shoulders as he observed the astrological charts in the old wizard's study. Slytherin had copied—and corrected—several Chinese star charts. "Who knows such things?" responded Reza.

"Funny you should put it like that." Reza allowed his gaze to fall to the table before him. Several occult books lay strewn about. A beautiful dark green book lay open to a page where the wizard had made several notes. The words _Avada Kedavra_ were scrawled in Aramaic in the margin. Slytherin continued, "I believe we are at the dawn of a new era—for wizards at least."

"Oh? A new wizarding era?"

"Oh, yes." Slytherin pointed to the far wall. The wall contained architectural notes pertaining to a large castle structure. Reza started to stand up to take a closer look, but with a wave of the wizard's hand, a tied–off curtain was loosed and fell across the drawings. "Sorry, we can't have outsiders snooping at our school."

"_School?_" Reza was intrigued. "The Europeans are going to build a university? That is good news! I've heard rumblings about this in Paris, but I didn't know the finances and support had finally…"

"It will _not_ be in Paris," the dark wizard interrupted. "Its location is known only to a few—in fact I am making it unplottable. It will be a pure–blood school of witchcraft and wizardry."

"A school dedicated only to magic?"

"Indeed," said Slytherin.

Reza shook his head, "Such is not the way in the universities of Morocco, or Egypt, or…"

"But the day is soon coming when wizards will have to hide from the muggle world."

"The _muggle world_? I know of no such place."

Slytherin laughed, "You are a naïve one, Senhor Reza." He took a swig of the drink in his goblet, then returned it to the obsidian–marble table between he and Reza. "But enough talk. Tell me… Were you able to find any information on the whereabouts of the ring?"

Reza cleared his throat. He again observed the strange accouterment around him—the ancient weapons, the tattered maps and tapestries, the mountains of dark arts manuscripts from all the forgotten places of the world. The gaze of the master wizard sent shudders down Reza's back. It seemed the entirety of this man's purpose was the dark destruction of the world.

Reza attempted a ruse, "With so little to go on, it has been difficult. The name itself evokes a serpentine quality. The _uroborous_, the image of the snake eating its own tail, is an ancient symbol of cyclicality and time."

The old wizard huffed with displeasure, "Yes, yes… And did you follow up on the connection to Pythos? The Cult of Pythos?"

"The ancient Greek snake goddess?"

"Something like that," snorted Slytherin.

"Yes, I looked through the library of Greek manuscripts in Córdoba for information on the cult, but all my leads seemed to end with the rise of the Apollonian cults in sixth century ancient Greece."

"Apollo… What a waste," Slytherin hissed to himself.

"Apollo was the son of the god–king, Zeus. Out of the darkness of night, he rose and brought the sun. I always liked that story."

"That is because you only know the Apollonian side of the story," said the smirking wizard.

"Is there another side I should know about?" asked Reza. The old wizard turned his head away. "For my research?" continued Reza.

After a few moments, Slytherin obliged. It was a risk to tell Reza, but the value of the ring was worth it. After all, once Slytherin had the ring, he could always kill the Persian librarian. The dark wizard walked away from the table and opened a drawer. He thumbed through several stacks of manuscripts and then hand–picked a few and laid them on the table. Reza could make out a few words in Greek, but the rest he could not read easily. Slytherin smiled as he applied a sharp black fingernail to a symmetrical diagram. It looked to represent four from one, Reza surmised. "Drakaina," Slytherin said pointing to the center sphere. "The Mother."

Reza looked up. "Drakaina? As in _dragon_?"

Slytherin drug his fingernail to another orb in the diagram. "Pythos, daughter of the Dragon."

"Pythos?" repeated Reza.

"Pythos, the bringer of knowledge." Slytherin raised his head slightly in an unconscious act of reverence. His words came softly and resonated deep in his throat. "The Dragon Queen sought out the first wizards and showed them the path to true knowledge. She brought arcane wisdom to the ancients. She is the source of all potion–lore."

"So, Pythos is the Dragon Queen?" Reza asked.

Slytherin lowered his gaze toward Reza. "She is."

Reza countered, "But in the Greek stories, Apollo kills Pythos and she falls into the earth. I seem to remember that the place this occurred is what became the Oracle at Delphi." Slytherin laughed as Reza continued, "So, what _did_ happen to Pythos?"

"Apollo did _not_ kill Pythos. This is an oversimplification of the history. In fact, Pythos bred the best wizards with gorgons. This infertile race of half–gorgon, half–wizard warriors were known as the Ophions. The warrior Ophions protected the Dragon Queen, while the learned acolytes attended to her. Eventually, Greek invaders overwhelmed the Ophions and drove the Pythian cult underground."

"So, when the Pythian cult went underground, this marked the 'death' of Pythos in the Greek stories?" Reza asked.

"Precisely," Slytherin nodded. "But this was not the end. The male priesthood took over the cult and a series of priest–kings, protected by the remaining Ophions, continued the Ophic traditions."

"How long did this go on underground in Greece?" asked Reza.

Slytherin then produced a most dreadful smile. Reza drew in a breath and closed his fist tightly. Slytherin continued, "I am establishing a new Pythian order in the distant safety of England."

"You?" Reza asked.

"…But to do so, I need the Ring of Urobara."

"Why? What is the nature of the ring?"

"It is said to have many natures. Before the Greeks, the Etruscans used it to weed out the non–pure. If a mortal who is not a pureblood wizard is made to wear the ring, he immediately apparates to a dementor nesting ground beyond the pillars of Herakles."

"_Dementor_… so it's a ring of sacrifice?" asked Reza.

"In a manner of speaking. It also grants the gift of parseltongue."

"Parseltongue?" asked Reza. "I thought that was just an Edenic myth."

"Oh, no, no," Slytherin shook his head. "This writing, here," Slytherin pointed again to the diagram of the four from one. "_This_ is parseltongue. It is the language of snakes. The Ophions speak only in parseltongue."

"So, it allows purebloods to talk to snakes?"

"Well, those who cannot already speak the divine language—yes."

Reza cocked his head, "Can _you_ speak to snakes?"

Slytherin smiled and continued, "It also contains powerful defensive abilities. It creates a dampening field around the wearer. It has…other powers as well," Slytherin paused, "But all of these are mere parlor tricks compared to its primary function."

Reza felt cold. "What is its primary function?"

Slytherin smiled. "I'm afraid I cannot divulge that."

"If I cannot know its chief purpose then how am I supposed to find it?" Reza countered.

"Let's just say that one day it will be given to the Dragon Queen."

"Given?"

"In marriage," said Slytherin.

"Senhor Slytherin, is it your purpose to marry this Dragon Queen?" Reza asked.

"We discussed a price for your acquisition of the ring. Find it, and I'll add a zero to the end of that number."

Reza stood from his chair with a snap and approached the drawing room to his right, where the curtain had fallen across the castle designs. Reza pulled his sapphire cloak close to his chest as he glided toward the drawing. He pulled back the curtain to reveal detailed measurements and plans in Latin. There were names associated with parts of the plan. "Who is Rowena Ravenclaw? It says here she's in the Scottish highlands. Is she in the Pythian order?"

"How _dare_ you question me!" cried the old wizard as he lumbered out of his chair.

"You're going to Albion to build a school for pure–bloods! Why? To rebuild the Pythian order?"

"Tell me, Persian. Why take this tone? Why ask these questions, unless… unless you _already_ know where the ring is!" Slytherin's face twisted into a hideous sneer as he reached out his claw–like left hand and screamed, _"Legilimens!"_

Salazar Slytherin possessed the greatest gift of legillimency in the medieval world. Often, for sport, he would play with the minds of passersby. _Beware the shopkeeper who short–changes Slytherin_, he smugly thought to himself as Reza's thoughts rushed into his mind. But a moment later, Slytherin's mind was in agony. All that Slytherin saw was fire—beautiful, terrible, roiling eruptions of golden fire. The fire consumed Salazar's mind. He fell to his knees and gripped his bald head in torturous agony. _"What are you?" _cried the stunned, wide–eyed wizard.

Reza unsheathed his curved shamshir sword and slowly approached Salazar. With more frequent need for a sword than a wand, the cypress–wound handle gave the blade the dual abilities of both. A single huma feather lay at the core of the sword. "I am jinni, master wizard. You are made of clay and the angels of light. But I am made of fire and given the will of men." Reza stood three paces from the wizard and extended the point of his sword at the neck of the old wizard. "Your time is at an end, Slytherin." Reza's eyes began to glow with amber rage.

"No! No!" Slytherin gleefully cackled and then thrust both his hands at Reza, _"Arresto Momentum!"_

_"Protego!"_ cried Reza as he raised his sword to help counter the spell.

"Ah! You know our magic," smiled Slytherin. "You are wise indeed, jinni. You should come with us! We have need of powerful wizards at Hogwarts."

"Choose your words carefully, dark wizard. They will be your last." Reza began to step closer to Slytherin when he noticed a torrent of books in mid–flight toward him. Reza lurched back and hid his sword from the onslaught. Slytherin touched his fingers together and floated up from his kneeling position so that he could now stand and conduct the objects in the room at Reza. The wave upon wave of pages, stones, and glass kept Reza at a distance from Slytherin. Reza could see satchels filling magically with books and baubles. He did not dare utilize his abilities as a fire–kind, for he did not know what knowledge he might inadvertently burn. _It was a wise tactic,_ thought Reza, _to attack me with books and rare objects_. _By my oath I cannot destroy knowledge. _The next spell left no more room for conjecture as Slytherin stretched out his arms.

_"Displosa!"_ cried Slytherin. And all at once, the second–floor room Reza was standing in exploded in a thunderous wave of wood and stone. The momentum of the blast blew Reza to the street below. The rubble flew in every possible direction. As a fire–kind, such blasts were not lethal to Reza. Nevertheless, he was not immune to their effects. A few moments after Slytherin's Blasting Charm, two men from the market lifted Reza carefully away from the debris and pulled him to safety. Slipping into unconsciousness, Reza rubbed at his chest. Underneath his cloak, he wore a simple necklace. To his great relief, the Ring of Urobara still hung on that necklace.

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A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing


	13. Weasley

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

* * *

CHAPTER 13: Weasley

Devonshire, England

Friday, the Third Day

The stream of hot water flowing gently from the teakettle into the fine china cups filled the young woman with a sense of domestic realization and familial pride. Molly had made tea for her and the family countless times. It was now her moment to share with another the oft–lauded joy of Weasley hospitality. She leaned to her right and responded to her solitary guest, "So you were there with the other professor when all this happened?"

"Ja." Heloise sat with her tired, clammy hands flat against the Weasley dining room table. Her disheveled, greasy hair was loosely tied back over her stained pullover. Her heavy travelling bag lay discarded in the entryway. Watching the back of her host at the kitchen counter, Heloise began to reconstruct the events of that fateful day at Durmstrang. "I had gone with _Herr_ _Dekan_, err—_Headmaster_ Christensen to meet up with another professor. I was applying for the new Charms position and…"

"I'm sorry! A _woman_ teaching Charms at Durmstrang?" the Weasley woman playfully snorted.

Heloise laughed, "Ginny, I know. It looks like an old boys' club over there, but there are good people at Durmstrang—the Headmaster among them. Anyway, the Headmaster wanted me to meet this other professor. Schrödinger. Well, we arrived at his office and were making small talk when several red–robed wizards stormed into the room. The headmaster and I sustained some injuries, but Schrödinger went missing altogether."

"The professor—the one who's a werewolf?"

"Yes. Christensen didn't know what to make of it. Was Schrödinger behind it? He wasn't sure. The Headmaster suspected everyone. We didn't have motive. We didn't have anything. There was even talk of a putsch against the Headmaster."

"_Putsch_?"

"Err… I think you Brits use the French—_coup d'état_."

"I see."

Heloise watched her host turn completely toward her now with two cups of tea. The delicate china cups had saucers and little sugar cubes. This was her first time in Britain, and she was quite taken with the British hospitality of the Weasley family. "Thank you for the tea."

"Not at all. Please continue."

"Eh… So, the ensuing investigation showed an unusual rise in werewolf disappearances in Northern and Central Europe. The Headmaster knew that Schrödinger was a werewolf. When the mass killing of werewolves in Sweden occurred, the motives of those who had attacked the Headmaster became clear. It was at that time I volunteered my services on behalf of Christensen to assist the British Aurors."

Her host agreed. "Yes. When Ron first left with Harry, Shacklebolt had said that the _Deutsche Ministerium_ wasn't to be involved—which surprised me."

Heloise nodded her head. "Durmstrang is in the middle of a massive mole hunt." Her host nodded knowingly as Heloise explained. "About fifty upperclassmen and recent alumni had gone missing. Due to its unplottable location and magical defenses, Christensen had reason to believe the wizards who took Schrödinger did so from within Durmstrang. Now, the question was, where had all the wizards gone? We've found countless dead werewolves, but no dead wizards."

"Well, they went _somewhere_!" the Weasley woman entreated.

Heloise nodded, "Indeed. And the wizards who attacked Ron, Harry, McGonagall, and myself were all wearing those same red robes I saw at Durmstrang."

"So it was a Durmstrang attack?"

Heloise raised an eyebrow. "Well, Durmstrang people were involved, but I can tell you with certainty that the Headmaster had absolutely nothing to do with it. But, yes. You are right insofar as this was the fate of the missing Durmstrang students. We encountered them at Birka and then again several more times. They are definitely working with the Drow."

Her host looked aghast, "The Drow!"

"Ja! The Drow are elfish mercenaries in the German hinterland. The have little magical ability and are not as clever as the breed of—err, _hauself_ you keep in Britain."

The Weasley woman scoffed, "Well, you'll find no house elves kept at the Burrow."

"Yes. I noticed that." Heloise took a draft of her tea and continued after a moment's pause. "After the evening when we lost the British Aurors, Neville and I hid in Stockholm to await further instructions from Christensen. Once he put me in touch with the Ministerium, I told them about the red–robed wizards. It was clear at that point that Durmstrang was completely compromised. The Ministerium then sent me a new team."

"Who?"

Heloise took another sip of her tea. "Ginny, I shouldn't. It's Ministerium business."

But her host persisted, "Heloise, _this_ is my family. Neville is a close friend. Please, you wouldn't have come to the Burrow unless you trusted Ron. You need to trust me now."

Heloise rubbed at her shoulder and upper arm. By now the ill–treated, residual _fiendfyre_ curse had set into the muscle. She had been worried these past few days that _ozmorsus_ would set into the bone. She might lose her arm—or worse—if she didn't stop, rest, and receive proper treatment. "Wilhelm was our point man. He was a Ministerium Meister–Auror and close friend of Dekan Christensen. He was killed when Neville was taken. The others were Maria and Reza."

"Reza? _That's _an unusual name."

"He was sent by the Ministerium. The story, which Reza maintained, was that he was an auror–in–training from Iran and would be accompanying us. The Ministerium, for reasons never made entirely clear to me, went over Wilhelm's head to do this. Wilhelm was not happy about the arrangement, and, in my opinion, he ended up placing far too much focus on proving that Reza was a spy."

"Well, he _is_ a foreigner." The Weasley woman immediately looked embarrassed and stared blankly at Heloise. "Wait… I'm sorry. That was rude."

Heloise smiled and nodded, "It's alright. That's also how Wilhelm took it. And he persisted in that way of thinking. 'Reza's not a German.' 'Reza's not an Auror.' 'What do we really know about Reza?' It really got us off task several times."

"So at this point, _is_ Reza a suspect?"

Heloise shook her head and drank more tea. "No." She set the cup down on its saucer and smiled. "This is really good tea by the way."

"It's a Duchess Grey blend. Please… you were explaining Reza."

"Ja. Reza. Before I began obliviating the crowd at Heidelberg, I discovered that Reza had risked his life—and killed many Drow in the process—in an attempt to save Neville. Having gotten to know Reza, I believe this is an accurate description of what happened at Heidelberg. The traitor who continued to feed the Drow our position remained a mystery to me until that day." Heloise watched Ginny drink her tea. She took no crème or sugar, although she had poured an abundance of crème into Heloise's cup without asking. Heloise dismissed this as a British curiosity and watched the almost–hidden sadness in Ginny's face. She thought about Ginny's role as Ron's brother and imagined how she would feel if their roles were reversed. "Ginny, can we go up and see Ron?"

Her host met eyes with Heloise as she set her tea down. She stared at her for a long moment. "Sure. He's upstairs."

The two witches made their way up the old creaky staircase. Standing just outside the bedroom in which Ron was now convalescing, Heloise allowed her weary body to slump back against the wall. She had travelled a long way but—having gained Harry's and Ron's trust in Sweden—Heloise felt the Burrow was one of the few safe places she could find assistance. The Drow attacks had been going badly. By the time her team had arrived in Heidelberg, the Drow were attacking in broad daylight! Heloise's breathing had become labored, and her hand trembled slightly as she fought to keep her teacup from spilling. While her lips smiled, her eyes told a story of long roads without medicine or rest.

Her host smiled back, "Are you sure there's nothing else I can get you?"

"No thank you, Ginny," said Heloise with heavy breath. "I only wish there were more wizards available to help bring Reza and Neville home."

"Neville is a close friend. I am sorry to hear he has been captured. And you say there's been no contact with McGonagall since Birka?"

"No. None," Heloise gulped dryly. "She went into the lake with whatever beast the Drow brought, and she never came back out I'm afraid."

"What about Maria?" The Weasley woman leaned in, casting her gaze to the ground. She spoke slowly and carefully. "You still haven't told me what happened to Maria after Heidelberg?"

Heloise nodded her heavy head. "_Maria._" As she attempted to focus her eyes, her blood ran cold. "I have come to believe Maria is the one who gave our position to the Drow. I think she is a spy. I don't know where she is now, or to whom she may have reported our activities." Heloise paused and took in the homey interior of the Burrow where the two witches were now standing. "Ginny, I don't understand why we don't go to the British Ministry of Magic? Why can't we bring more to Neville's aid?"

"It would…raise suspicion. We have someone in deep cover already, and it's been decided that involving the Ministry would jeopardize his work."

"Who?" asked Heloise.

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"But Ginny, surely more numbers would help…"

"Promises were made, and the Ministry will not be involved."

Heloise stumbled a little as she peaked a look at Ron through the bedroom door. She smiled and confided, "Your brother was very brave at Birka. He went for the red–robed wizards with a ferocity I seldom see. He pushed me out of harm's way and walked through a hail of gunfire before being petrified."

"Yeah," her face melted into a warm smile. "He's good like that. A bit thick sometimes—but I love him."

Heloise hung on the word 'love' for a moment. It sounded odd the way Ginny had put it. Heloise could now feel her jaw going numb. She then took notice of his striking red hair and looked back at Ginny. "_Entschuldigung_. Why aren't you a redhead like your brother, Ginny?"

Her smile began to dissolve. "Redhead? _Oh! _I take after our dad," she said with a nervous nod, now brushing her curly brunette hair behind her ear. Heloise was beginning to have serious trouble with her balance. The drugged tea was beginning to take its effect, so she had to act quickly. Hermione firmly grabbed Heloise by the sides of her head and brought her face in nose–to–nose as Heloise began to lose her ability to stand.

"You're… NOT GINNY!" shrieked a wide–eyed Heloise.

"_Legilimens!_" invoked Hermione. Heloise's experiences with Neville, Ron, and Harry were brought forth with great ease as she dropped her teacup. It appeared Heloise had told Hermione the truth. She was legitimately scared for her life and was clearly not a spy or assassin. The teacup bounced off the stairs and spun as it fell to the entryway below. Heloise had travelled through the Black Forest and knew the direction Neville and Reza had been taken. She had seen the road. She knew the landmarks… She knew nothing of Harry or McGonagall after Sweden. The Drow. The red–robed wizards. Hermione sought information about Draco but Heloise had never heard the name. _Good_.

The teacup shattered against the wooden floor below as Heloise's body unconsciously slumped forward into Hermione's arms. "Rest, poor girl," Hermione said with a care as she carried Heloise to the cot next to Ron. As she brushed the hair out of Heloise's face, Hermione whispered, "Sie sind mit Freunden."

Ginny had been gone with her mother to shop for some baby clothes for her one–year–old, James. For the last week, Grandma Molly had kept James for Ginny. With Harry's constant absence, Molly bore a great share of the responsibility in raising young James Potter II. Ever the doter, it was Molly who had requested Hermione watch after Ginny. But now Hermione knew she needed to take over where Heloise left off. It was the right thing to do. _Besides_, Hermione thought, _my being here just seems to exacerbate Ginny's worries about Harry_. Best friends since Hogwarts, Ginny and Hermione could nowadays get on each other's last nerve as the adult pressures of family and career settled in. For Hermione, Ginny could be as daft as the boys. _Who plays quidditch into their adult years? _thought Hermione_. And why does Ginny let Harry run off on some damn fool adventure while his mother–in–law picks up the slack? I know Molly thinks Harry hung the moon, but she's changed more diapers in the last week than Harry has in the last six months—the twit!_

Hermione fetched her enchanted bag and travel clothes. As she tore off her pullover, she felt her stomach heave a bit. _No. I'm not going to throw up,_ Hermione thought. _That would be silly._ And in the next moment she shot down the stairs to the ground floor bathroom, barely making it in time. After swearing off clam chowder for the next century, Hermione walked across to Arthur's bureau and began to write down detailed instructions for Heloise's care in a brief note to Ginny. Hermione knew that Ginny thought she was bossy and uncompromising. And maybe she was. And maybe this was the wrong choice. But it _felt_ right. It felt like what the boys would do if they were in this same situation. Hermione quickly scribbled:

_ Ginny,_

_ The injured woman upstairs is Heloise Güring. She's a friend of Ron's and Harry's and needs to hide here for a while. I have left instructions for her care next to the cot. Please see she gets plenty of rest. She may not believe you are Ginny Weasley at first. Please tell her I'm sorry for being deceitful, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I've left to bring Neville back. Heloise has given me enough information to get started, and I won't let anyone else get trapped in this nightmare. I will not contact the Ministry. I do not agree with your reasoning, but I will keep my promise. _

_Your loving sister, H._

—

With her travel cloak on and her bag packed, Hermione returned to Ron's bedside to kiss him goodbye. When Harry had left Ron at the Burrow those weeks back, there had been no time to react—only to mourn the tragedy of Ron's near mortal wounds. Since that day, time had been the only thing Hermione possessed. Now, she had names. She had places. A plan began to form in Hermione's mind as she stood over her love. The bloodshot sunset outside cast a murderous red light across the bedroom walls as Hermione's rational mind slowly made room for the rage that was growing inside her. The time for tears and waiting was over. Hermione would now have satisfaction.

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A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing


	14. The Gate

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

* * *

CHAPTER 14: The Gate

The Island of Souda

Sunday, the Fifth Day

As the late afternoon sun hovered over the horizon on Draco's third day on the island, he walked with the Woman along the beach. The waves ebbed and flowed along the sandy shore, as the sky cast a gray–blue hue along the coast and across the Woman's face. She watched the beach to her left, hands clasped behind her back, leading Draco by her side as she had done since his arrival.

"So explain to me the vision of the charioteer with two horses," the Woman instructed.

Draco squinted his eyes as he imagined the scene. "The charioteer is the reasoning part of the soul. He represents eternal being and wisdom."

"And the two horses which he reigns in?"

"The first horse represents aspiration or spirit—the desire to become something more than you are. The second horse represents the appetites—like power and sexuality. Together, the charioteer and the two horses represent the three parts of the soul."

"And what does this reveal about power?" the Woman asked.

"That the seduction of power is misleading. Only the balanced soul can be master of his own life."

"How does one balance the appetites and the spirit?"

Draco turned to her as they walked and smiled. He had come to enjoy these long walks together with the Woman. "Through reason—the charioteer."

"Yes." The Woman looked off to the ocean's horizon. "Reason is eternal. Reason gives us a glimpse of the inner workings of the universe. Reason shows us the way to the balanced soul."

"But I _need_ my appetites. The love of my family is why I'm out here."

"That's right," the Woman acknowledged. "But reason is how you came to that decision. You have appetites, but you are not guided solely by them. Remember, you told me you stayed with Astoria because you _aspired_ to be something more than your father. Your reason brought you to this decision; your spirit and appetites gave you the impetus to act."

"So how will I know when I've gone too far? We talked yesterday about my father's aspiration being the cause of his downfall."

"Well, that, and hubris."

"Yes…"

"Seek the _middle way_," the Woman reassured Draco.

Draco nodded. "The way between two extremes," he repeated from the lesson on his second afternoon.

"That's right. Between Bellatrix's foolhardiness and Wormtail's cowardice lies the virtue of courage. Ask yourself why they turned to Voldemort. Bellatrix lacked reason. Wormtail lacked spirit." The Woman turned now to Draco as they made their way down the beach. "You will need an abundance of courage where you are headed, Draco."

"My father had no lack of courage or spirit—at least not until the war."

"Lucius possessed the spirit of a warlock and the appetites of a king. But he possessed the reason of neither. Your father, unlike your mother, lacked prudence."

Draco asked, "What else did he lack?"

"Your father lacked self–knowledge. He had almost no balance in his life. It's the trouble with power, Draco. You lose sight of what's important, and the acquisition of power becomes its own reward. The virtue of self–knowledge lies between the vices of false–modesty on the one hand and arrogance on the other. Now, misplaced modesty has never been a vice of the Malfoys, but arrogance has been the downfall of many. _Know thyself_, as we used to say on the Peloponnesus."

A quiet fell between the two as the student and the Woman continued to walk. Draco took some time to digest the Woman's ancient Greek wisdom. She had spent centuries reading and pondering over Plato and Aristotle. Never before had anyone awakened Draco to the problems in his own life and given him a vocabulary through which he could articulate his misgivings about his father, his frustration with the Malfoy–Voldemort legacy, and his surprising courtship with Astoria. The Woman still left Draco perplexed. He did not know who she was and would probably never know. Everything seemed to be a mental exercise with her. She had a way of disarming and skewering him with some philosophical point that at once frustrated and freed him. Yet, as the hours had passed into days, he had come to appreciate and respect this mysterious Woman by the sea.

"How long have you lived on this island?" asked Draco.

"A long time." The Woman mused, "Longer than English has been spoken on _your_ island."

Draco smiled as he looked off into the setting sun, "That's a long time."

"It is."

Draco looked back to the Woman's face. "Have you always lived alone?"

"You mean alone on the island?"

"Yes," Draco nodded slightly.

The Woman drew in a long breath, "On the island, I am granted immortality and magical ability. But the island is unplottable, and I cannot bring others here. So, the island remains my home."

"Do you ever leave the island?"

"Now and again. The last time I left the island was 1968."

"1968?"

"New York City." The Woman smiled as she closed her eyes. "I wanted to spend a night in the _Big Apple_. I watched _2001: A Space Odyssey_ and got to see Aretha Franklin at Madison Square Garden."

"Sounds like fun," Draco mused.

"It was. It was magical." The Woman then clinched her jaw and ended her prevarication, focusing again in a very steady tone. "Draco…you know that in order to find Soran, you have to first kill the Gorgon."

"I know," Draco was resolved to say.

"You also know that gorgons are nearly impossible to kill."

Draco nodded, "That's why I was brought here. Because you're going to open the gate for me."

The Woman tilted her head, "Well, I also have choices to make. I can let you in or not let you in. But going into the Underworld is the only surefire way you have of reaching Soran and Harry."

Draco responded, half–smiling, "What reason would you have not to let me in?"

"It is generally forbidden to let the living into the Underworld. However, there is now a witch being held in the Asphodel Fields, beyond the veil. The Beanshìdh of Brogdar have made a deal with me. If you retrieve the witch, they will allow you to exit the Underworld with a weapon devastating enough to kill the Gorgon."

"You want me to rescue a dead witch?"

"She's not dead. That's why she's retrievable. The Gorgon you seek is a veil–walker, like the banshee and me, and she took the witch there for safekeeping."

"What if I can't find the witch?"

"You will."

"How do you know?" Draco asked.

"The Underworld is a metaphysical plane. It has a geography, but you will experience it in a way personal to you. You might even meet some old friends along the way. Because you know the witch in question, you will undoubtedly…"

"Wait!" Draco interrupted, "I know the witch? Who is it?"

The Woman raised her chin slightly, "The banshee require Minerva McGonagall to grant you and the weapon passage back."

"Professor McGonagall?"

"The same," responded the Woman. "She was taken to the Underworld about two weeks ago when Harry was taken."

Draco's brow furrowed. "Is Harry in the Underworld?"

"No. I would be able to see that. Harry is on our plane. Actually, I believe Harry is right here in the Mediterranean somewhere, though I still cannot pinpoint his location."

"And what about this weapon I must retrieve? It's been three days now, and you still haven't told me about the weapon," Draco pressed.

"Well, I wasn't sure I could trust you before."

"And now?"

"Now, I've grown to like you, Draco Malfoy," the Woman said with a smile as she rubbed his shoulder and looked him in the eye. "The weapon you will seek is called the _Scythe of Hermes_. It is a cursed weapon, as are all weapons forged in the Underworld. It will kill the Gorgon."

"How do you know?"

"Because it can kill anything."

Draco slowed his pace along the beach. "Anything?"

The Woman let out a deep breath. "Gorgons are bred in the Underworld. They are more beast than woman, more woman than serpent. Queen–Gorgons have two arms and a snakely end—those are the rarest. There hasn't been a Queen–Gorgon on earth for a very long time. They are wise, immortal, and have the power to turn the living into stone. Soldier–Gorgons have a powerful set of arms and legs, and a tail to match. That's what you face. She'll be between seven and nine feet tall. She cannot turn you to stone, but she's as strong as a basilisk and almost completely immune to magic. Only a weapon from her own plane can destroy her."

Draco stopped, frozen in his tracks. It took him a moment to form the words. "Why can't you just send me to Soran yourself?"

"I'm not all–powerful, kiddo. I'm a veil–walker and a gate–keeper. If I stray too far from the island, then I'm no different than an old muggle." The Woman took in Draco's expression and sighed. "I have tried, but I only see one thing when I seek Soran or Harry. Blood. Werewolf blood, I think."

"What does that mean?"

"I really don't know, Draco. I'm sorry." The Woman approached Draco and put her hand on his back. "Come, let's walk a little more." Draco stood still. "If you want to save Harry, and show the world and Scorpius that Lucius is the past, you must do this. You must save the grey–malkin from Hades and retrieve the Scythe of Hermes." Draco looked to his frozen feet and took in a deep breath. The Woman frowned, "There are hundreds of ley line locations, Draco. We need the banshee to do this. It is not in my power to do this alone."

Draco began to walk again with his master. His white linen outfit rustled in the dusk island breeze. He asked in a voice much stronger than he felt, "What do I have to do in the Underworld to attain the scythe?"

"Nothing… In fact, I imagine they'll simply offer it to you."

"Why would they do that?" Draco asked.

"Because they believe you will do things with the scythe that you aren't going to do."

"Like what?" asked Draco, half–smirking.

The woman stopped abruptly. "Do you see what you did there, Draco?" she snapped. "Rein it in, boy! If you want Lucius to be the past, then you need to watch that ego of yours. Never you mind what the liars in Hades would have you do. You'll have none of it! Right?"

Draco was taken aback, not realizing the gravity of his earlier remark. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you with my question. I just want to know as much as I can before I get down there."

The Woman shook her head, "It doesn't matter what you know. You will be tempted nonetheless. What matters is who you are, what you value, and how you evaluate those things."

Draco nodded in recognition, "They're going to give me the scythe because I'm a Malfoy, aren't they?" The Woman pursed her lips and nodded once. He continued, "They believe I will fight for them."

The Woman nodded again. "And they will be _very_ convincing." Draco looked off to the horizon as the Woman gripped his arm. "Above all else, when you face the decisions in front of you, I want you to remember the love you bear Astoria and the love you two have for Scorpius."

"Of course," said Draco.

"No, I mean for you to be _ever mindful_—keep her close to your heart," responded the Woman.

Draco nodded his head in agreement and turned his thoughts to the journey ahead. He attempted once more, "Is there no other way to kill the Gorgon?"

"No. The last gorgon to be killed died a long, long time ago. The Scythe of Hermes is the only known way to kill a gorgon, and it is found in the city of Tartarus in the Underworld."

Draco let out a deep sigh as he stared off into the seascape.

"There is one bit of good news. I have called for a Guide—a mount to help you find your way. Though I do not know if he will come."

"What is it?" asked Draco.

"Someone who was sent to the other side by Voldemort's thirst for power. I do not know if he forgives us for what was done to him or his kind." Draco knew not to push for a name; the Woman had a thing about names—including never telling him _her_ name. "You will know him when you see him. All of Tartarus will know this fair creature." The Woman reassured Draco with her hand to his back as they stood in the foam of the tide.

The Woman stared off into the seascape for a few moments and then turned her head back to a distant hill. "Come, I have something to show you." The Woman took Draco by the hand and continued to walk another hundred meters or so until they came to a barren tree on a hill overlooking the water. At the base of the tree, Draco's black cloak and clothes were neatly pressed and folded. His boots buffed to a high shine.

"Here is your ophic powder—the cremated remains of ancient gorgons," said the Woman as she tossed the small sack on the ground next to the clothes. "Only the blood of the gorgon, and a few other creatures which I shall not name, can travel the ley lines. For you to travel them, you of course have needed the ring."

"How do I control where it takes me?" asked Draco.

"No mortal creature is powerful enough to do that. The ring has properties that govern where you go—properties I cannot fully understand without sufficient time to test it. But time is a luxury we can no longer afford." The Woman then handed Draco the Ring of Urobara and looked once more to the horizon, "I will open the doorway to the Underworld. After that, you are on your own."

"What about my wand?" asked Draco.

"Your wand will be a useless twig in the Underworld. You will have no recourse to magic whatsoever while you're down there. Nonetheless, you'll need it when you return to our plane." The Woman reached into her flowing cloak and retrieved Draco's wand. "This is a sign of trust, Draco. I have no wand here, but I know you. I know the man you are and the man you have yet to become. Power and authority are yours to take, but remember that real power is the knowledge of self."

Draco smiled as he took back his wand. "So, is this goodbye?" asked Draco as he reached down to pick up his black cloak. But there was no response. Draco turned but did not see the Woman. He turned the other way but saw only the beach and the surf. He stood for a moment and then quietly collected his things. He took off the linen tunic and pants and again adorned himself in the sturdy, magisterial black Malfoy garb. In the distance he saw a young woman on the beach in tattered clothing, walking a goat to the edge of the tide. As Draco turned to pick up the sack of ophic powder, he noticed that the white linen clothing he was just wearing had disappeared. Behind him, he heard the young woman shouting against the tide in a language he did not understand. He turned and stood motionless for a moment under the barren tree.

After a few more incantations, the young woman stretched out her right arm and a long dagger materialized in her hand, glistening in the dusk light. She yelled out one more incantation and then, holding the goat's head high with her left hand, she soundlessly swung the dagger across the goat's carotid artery. A spray of blood issued from the goat across the beach and into the surf. Distant lightning struck the seascape—appearing closer and closer to the young woman. The goat dropped dead in the sand a moment later. Draco had never seen anything like this before. He heard a rustling above him and when he looked up he saw that the once–barren tree was now full of leaves and pomegranates.

The sound of electricity sparking along the beach beckoned Draco's attention back in front of him. A horizontal gateway had formed a few meters into the water, but there was no sign of the young woman. The edges of the gate glowed like the aurora borealis as giant arcs of electric current surged around it and into the sky. Within the gate itself, there was nothing but darkness. Draco looked in utter dread at the 'hole' in the ocean. This was it. This was the road to Tartarus. McGonagall was down there, too, apparently. Draco slid the ring on and noticed now that the eyes on the snake–form of the ring were glowing an eerie pale blue light. With his kit slung over his shoulder, Draco made his way down to the beach. The gateway seemed to solidify and the electric arcs seemed to quiet as Draco approached. He turned back once more to see the bungalow where he had shared several meals with the Woman. It was gone. He was sure he was looking in the right place; it simply was no longer there.

The sand was wet with goat's blood as Draco approached the awesome gateway. The outer edges hummed with an aura of magic he had not witnessed since he was in close physical proximity to Voldemort. The gateway emanated a sulfur–like aroma as the water around it churned and bubbled. Draco could feel the hair standing on end across his neck, scalp, and arms as he waded into the water. The shallow current felt hot along his thighs. As he approached the gate, Draco peered over the edge and into the abyss. He could hear it evoking a hollow sound—like a felled dragon wheezing its last breath. It absolutely terrified him. Draco then brought his hands to his chest and allowed his body to go limp and fall all at once into the darkness.

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A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing


	15. Beyond the Veil

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

* * *

CHAPTER 15: Beyond the Veil

There was a dance of many things both great and small, with fascinating flickers and waves of light. Astonishing, and not seen. Beyond the realm of ever, enclosed in the pure frame of undifferentiated unity. Resplendent awakening! The emanating will to power descends upon the flower petals. Immobile, all vibrate in the formidable resonance that carries across the vastness. Notes are numbers, which become letters and words. _Love, Forever._ The song and the petals and the stars that are one become many, out of which the stream of thoughts and actions and consequences began to coalesce. Draco was now aware that he was thinking about falling.

The voracious wind rattled his bones as he plummeted down. Several shards of light descended toward him from a great, empty distance. There was a single, warm intonation. Then another and another. Draco had the sense of falling through cold, dark space but could not get his bearings.

"Speak, child," Draco sensed someone say.

"Mother?" Draco asked.

"You are not yet awake," a feminine voice told him, gently. The noise ceased. Draco felt alone but was not yet aware of his body.

"What… is this place?"

"You are in the Underworld—_beyond the veil_," a familiar, masculine voice responded.

Draco felt the weight of his head now along his neck. His arms laid underneath him on the icy, craggy rocks. He could feel his blood flowing in his fingers and feet. His breath slowly wheezed out of the exhausted cavity of his chest. Draco opened his eyes and saw only shades of murky blue–black darkness. Draco blinked his dry eyes but could not make out more than heavy blurs. He could now smell a foul, salty–sulfur odor and heard the creaky howl of boat–masts swaying and settling in the low tide of a busy harbor.

"I can't see," Draco replied.

"Of course you can't see, Mr. Malfoy. This is the Underworld. You haven't eyes, have you?"

"Wait. Are you my mother? I heard a woman's voice…" Draco was becoming aware of the low din of people moving and gathering just beyond him, between him and the boats.

With a chuckle the dark figure retorted, "All evidence to the contrary. I wager I've cleaned up more of your messes than Narcissa ever did." A mammoth bell tolled in the background. The dark figure shot back defensively at the sound.

"Wait! I know that voice!" Draco murmured as he began to lift himself from the rocky terrain, wiping his eyes as he steadied himself.

"Well, I should hope so. I was only your professor, the head of your house, _and_ your Headmaster," the man added in a self–satisfied tone. "Mr. Malfoy," he said. "It's Professor Snape." Just then, Snape's face became clear to Draco. Snape was observing Draco with a look of consternation that morphed into an oddly–shaped smile. Or, at least it appeared odd on Snape.

Snape reached out to Draco and gripped his arms. Snape's hands felt warm and heavy. "Steady on, Mr. Malfoy. I saw you come through the veil. We've been expecting you."

Draco's mind was slowly coming together. He began to speak but lost his voice when the horror of his surroundings overtook him. He was standing on a small hill overlooking a vast harbor filled with legions of the pitiable damned, wailing and gnashing at each other, all making their way to the harbor boats. Several boatmen—twice the height of a man, with spindly limbs and tattered clothes—roved effortlessly through the crowds, seizing riches, weapons, and keepsakes from the mourning deceased. One man in a blood–spattered, pinstriped suit hesitated to relinquish his mobile to the boatman and was subsequently thrown violently into the distant boat. The boatman momentarily retained both the mobile and the man's bloodied arm before flinging both into the watery depths. Another man slumped his body over his riches and would not give way to the boatman; the boatman responded by swiping at the man, cleaving him in two with the might of his grip. The half of the man who remained on the ground shrieked in utter agony as the boatman took his goods. Draco observed a third man, approached by three hellspawn who flew toward the man with frightening speed. One tore off his jaw, the others tore off his arms as they drug him to the boats shouting in agony. The boatmen never spoke. They simply wandered through the crowd as cursed shepherds of the damned. The screams were maddening as the sight of bodies flying into the boats and occasionally past the boats followed the sounds of blood–soaked flesh being beaten and torn to pieces. Those who fell into the harbor did not rise again to the surface. Panic and cries for mercy echoed in all directions.

"This place…" Draco began to speak but could not finish.

"I know…" Snape acknowledged, nodding his head in agreement.

Draco looked over in horror. "Professor Snape, is _this_… where you ended up?"

Snape began to smile, but before he could respond, one of the boatmen approached Draco from behind. The boatman stopped in his tracks, sniffing at Draco through his cloaked hood. Draco felt the sweat on his back go icy cold as he spun around to face the boatman. The boatman tilted his charred head and fire–lit eyes as he reached out his decrepit hand toward Draco.

"No!" cried Snape. "You have no power over this one! He is… alive!" The boatman laughed a wheezing, throaty chuckle at the pretense of the late wizard. Then Snape raised his right hand, from which a faint light began to pour out and illuminate the boatman's face causing him to flinch and cover his face with his hand. "I know your name, Phelgyas! I rebuke you!"

The boatman shot back, "No! You are not permitted to interfere with my work!"

Snape countered, "This one will cross the River Lethe!"

The boatman grinned and wheezed a bemused laugh. "Not unless he pays me." The boatman approached Draco, gently laying his spider–like fingers along Draco's shoulders. He took in a long draught of Draco's smell and paused before exhaling. "This one has the scent of wickedness. He may not pass the harbor if it is not my pleasure."

"Then I shall go with him!" Snape responded.

"Kak you speak, Wizard! One cannot pass from the Halls of Grace down the River of the Damned. Your domain ends at the Elysian Fields. Now—make way!"

"I will not!" Snape cried. Just then, six hellspawn creatures, seemingly out of nowhere, spiraled toward the boatman in streams of shadow and flame to stand guard at his side. The boatman laughed again as he pressed his sharp fingertips into Draco's black cloak. Draco began to observe the state of these creatures, some of whom were actively on fire, when two glorious spires of light descended with a _boom_ at flanking positions next to Snape. To Snape's right appeared Draco's cousin, Nymphadora. To Snape's left stood one of Draco's father's former house elves—Dobby. The boatman stopped laughing when he saw Dobby and looked up to meet Snape's eyes. Snape now lifted both his hands, palms out, toward the boatman. "I command you to let him pass, Phelgyas!"

The boatman began to shake his head as he looked to Dobby. "Even the elf can't cross the Lethe. Even _he_ is blameworthy. This remains _my_ domain, and I claim power over him."

"We have no intention of crossing your domain," Nymphadora said. She leaned in to speak briefly to Draco, "It's good to see you, cousin! I'm so proud of you for coming here." Draco felt a deep sense of joy at seeing Nymphadora. In that moment, he wanted to share with her how his mother had wept in his arms at Nymphadora's brutal passing. How Narcissa and Draco had made an emotional journey together after the war, and that love—especially for Draco—had finally won out. Thus was the door opened for him to court Astoria. Thus was the measure now of his pride and admiration of his fallen cousin, whose soul was filled with such a light that it filled and warmed Draco on the cold shores of the Lethe.

"That's too bad. I would enjoy devouring you as you screamed," grumbled the fiery warrior to the boatman's left. With his outstretched left hand he gestured for Nymphadora to join him on the boat; his right hand remained in its ready position on the hilt of his sword. "Please, be my guest."

"Stand down, jinni!" yelled Dobby, who had now taken a fighting stance with his outstretched arms and fingers in position to threaten with elven magic.

"Careful, master boatman," Snape cautioned. "Elves _retain_ their magic in the Underworld."

"So do the jinn!" the jinni hissed back, much to the delight of the damned creatures flanking the boatman. The jinni then whipped his sword out from its sheath and leveled its amber–glowing blade at Draco's face. "Maybe I'll just take my chances here and now and kill the mortal."

"No!" the boatman responded, snapping at the damned jinni. "It is not permitted!" The jinni grunted as he sheathed his sword and glowered at Draco. "I can handle this. Leave us!" the boatman ordered. The six hellspawn then departed as quickly as they had come.

Draco took several steps toward the safety of his companions and observed the dark distance beyond the harbor. On the horizon, he could make out a great city, wreathed in fire. It bore the appearance of a distant volcanic eruption. His mental processes and the contours of his plan had been returning to him in pieces. _The scythe. McGonagall. That city in the distance must be Tartarus_. But how was he to reach it if the boatman didn't allow him passage? Draco attempted to push aside his worry with thoughts of his wife and son. He missed them and hoped to be home soon. He missed Astoria's embrace and the smell of her hair. In this place, it was very hard to feel love. There was no redeeming purpose here—no queues or sense of sharing. Instead, Draco beheld men turned to mad dogs, tearing at each other for shiny things that couldn't be taken beyond the veil. The Woman's words began to ring true for Draco. _This_ was the darkness.

Then, to Draco's utter astonishment, he looked up to discover a pure, white light piercing through the distant darkness as a comet barreling through the night sky. It descended with thunderous speed, and then ebbed to a path parallel to the ground. Draco could now make out a brightly glowing creature galloping along the river. No—not _along_ the river—it was travelling _on_ the river. It splashed the river water as it thundered across the current with singular purpose. Draco squinted his eyes and could finally make out the creature. It was a unicorn, radiant and true. It approached Draco's retinue with its bold light, which the boatman shielded from his eyes with outstretched hands as he crumpled to his knees. Draco had not been in the presence of a unicorn since that dreaded night in the Forbidden Forest. Draco was moved by his presence and could sense both his gentleness and indomitable strength as he slowed his gait out of the river and passed through the crowds of the damned. All present gave the majestic beast a wide berth. Finally, he stood before Draco and company, with his head held high. His pristine flaxen–white mane flowed in shining splendor over his powerful body. He stood almost two meters at the withers—his telltale horn was nearly a meter in length. His grey–speckled alabaster coat shined in the glint of the harbor lights as the damned and the boatmen now stared in fear and wonder at the creature.

"Master Unicorn," Dobby acknowledged, as Dobby, Nymphadora, and Snape all bowed in reverent respect for the creature.

Snape then lifted his head and rebuked the boatman, "_This_ creature is blameless. Brought to the Shadowlands by a murderer's thirst for power." The boatman put his face to the ground and shuttered. "A creature of such purity, drug through the veil in violent defiance of the natural order—_he_ may now go where he pleases."

Draco then noticed the teeth marks on the unicorn's right side. He made a disturbing guess. "Voldemort?" The unicorn raised his head slightly, never wavering his view of Draco who was suddenly filled with a deep sense of shame. "You were fed on by the Dark Lord. I am so sorry. I am so very sorry." The unicorn stood motionless. Draco was in terrible despair. Save for his son, Draco had never seen such a pure creature in all his life. "What was done to you was shameful."

Snape commanded the boatman one final time, "Leave, or be destroyed!" The boatman nodded profusely and complied as he crawled away, scurrying madly as a spider down a hole.

Nymphadora looked pleased as she approached the unicorn and stroked his mane. The unicorn turned his head now toward Draco and stared into his eyes. Draco looked into his beautiful blue eyes and then immediately retreated his gaze. "I am so sorry. My family was a part of that, and I am so sorry." Draco closed his eyes tightly and felt a teardrop flow down his cheek. He could hear—no, _feel_—the unicorn stomp his hoof against the river rocks. Draco looked to the ground and caught a glance of the ring of Urobara on his hand. He noticed that the snake–eyes on the ring glowed with the same color as the unicorn's.

"We asked for him, and he came for you, Draco," Nymphadora said.

"Why?" Draco asked.

"Because," Snape responded quietly, "he knows what you fight for, and he wants to help you."

Dobby chimed in, "What we are in life, gives us strength here. I may have been of little value to men like your father, but here I am a leader and a friend to many."

The unicorn whinnied at Draco, who met his gaze. Nymphadora smiled, "He's ready for you, son of Black." She took Draco's hand and assisted him in mounting the mighty creature.

Draco smiled at Nymphadora's phrasing. The opportunity to unburden his heart had come. "My mother and I mourned your passing. Aunt Andromeda watches over and loves your son. As do my mother and I." Nymphadora smiled as her eyes welled up with tears. Draco felt compelled to say more. "I am a father now, cousin. I promise you that Teddy will know love as my son knows love. We will all love him and protect him. I swear it."

Nymphadora beamed with joy at Draco's words. "_I know. I've always known._ I just wanted to come down here and see it for myself. Thank you, Draco Malfoy."

Then Draco steered the unicorn to face Snape, for the first time taking notice of the ring on Snape's hand. He smiled, "Professor, I never knew you to wear jewelry in life. What is the ring?"

Snape laughed and touched his ring with its stunning ruby jewel. "It was a gift from my friends." Snape paused as the words caught in his throat. "It is for courage."

"Friends?" asked Draco laughingly.

"I am reconciled, Mr. Malfoy. When I died, I was in the company of three Gryffindors. A moment later, when I passed through the veil, I was again in the company of Gryffindors. Some who had passed recently; some who passed long ago. A woman whom I cared for very deeply in life approached me from their ranks and offered me this ring. I was later to find out… well, it just gets better from there, Mr. Malfoy. Just know that I am happy—happier than I ever thought possible."

The unicorn then slowly circled its one–ton, massive body toward the distant city. "Shall we be on our way, then?" Draco asked the beautiful beast. The unicorn stood motionless. Draco felt relieved as he observed the boats departing the now empty harbor. He no longer felt cold. Instead, he felt relief and a welling up of strength. He felt focused. "Then together, it is." Draco turned the noble stallion, holding on tightly to his impressive mane. As he moved down the hill, he nodded to his three Underworld guardians. "Thank you, friends. I shall not fail you!" Nymphadora and Dobby then waved goodbye and shot away in tandem columns of light. Snape remained for a moment longer, smiling as he watched his old student bravely ride across the River Lethe toward the city of Tartarus.

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A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing.


	16. Muggles

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

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CHAPTER 16: Muggles

Château de Maisons, Paris

_Three Hundred Years Before the Battle of Hogwarts_

_The last full moon Esbat before Samhain_

October 18, 1689

As the last rays of light receded behind the foliage of Saint Germain en Laye, the final delegation made their way into the _grande maison_. Merak Phineas Black observed the group coming and recognized their sashes. "Germans," he quipped to no one in particular. The group of stout bearded Germans wore long black cloaks—de rigueur for such an auspicious occasion. Every wizard present wore the same. But Black was able to make out the gold on black sashes each of the German delegates wore.

William Gaunt leaned in to take a better look and nodded approvingly. "Yes, the Dutch and Swiss are already inside."

"Well, that's most of the Protestant caucus," said Brutus Malfoy. "Let's see, the Dutch vote gives us China and what we didn't already take from them in New York." Malfoy gave Black a knowing glance. He and Black had seen to it that the English delegates held the greatest representation of the parliament. Each wore a white sash with a thin red stripe. It now appeared to Malfoy that more than half of the 1,300 witches and wizards on the grounds would vote with England, regardless of what color sash they brought with them.

"And the Germans and the Swiss? What shall they contribute?" asked John Prewitt.

"Ale and cheese," Harold Yaxley snorted, to the elation of the darker of the English delegates.

"Hey, nothing wrong with a good _English_ ale!" Prewitt retorted.

"Here, here!" Brutus Malfoy cheered with his wine glass high in the air. With a singular motion, Malfoy drained his glass and casually dropped it to the ground—only for it to be caught by his house elf.

"See!" Black said as he cheerfully pointed. "I told you house elves would prove useful!"

"Yes," Gaunt chimed in, "but forty pounds of African gold! You'd think the Alchemical Society could come up with a cheaper way to soul–catch elves."

Black interjected, "Good riddance to the elves _and_ the bloody goblins, I say."

Malfoy grinned as he made a kicking motion directed at the elf. "I own enough shares in the Royal African Trading Company to keep Malfoy Manor stocked with fresh elves for a long time to come."

"To the Gold Coast!" Black said, taking his freshened wine glass from the elf beside him. After taking a long swig of his Bordeaux, Black laughed and pointed at Malfoy. "Brutus, tell John what we have the goblins doing now."

"You mean accounting?" Brutus asked with a smirk.

Black laughed as the others stared quizzically at the smiling wizard. "Yes! He's hired those greedy, deceitful little goblins to count his gold!"

Malfoy added, "If you can't own them, why not hire them?" He then gestured toward Black. "I know Merak would have us annihilate the goblins…"

Black interjected playfully, "Hey, they tried to kill my…"

"They tried to kill your grandfather in the uprising. We know. We've all heard that story," Prewitt added.

Malfoy turned seriously toward Prewitt, "They're not people, John. I just think, _if hiring goblins rather than killing them is good for business, so be it_." Malfoy then gestured to Gaunt. "William has made sure that after this meeting, England…"

"_Britain_!" Black corrected.

"OK, _Great_ _Britain—_if Black and his people have their way with the Scottish Parliament—will be _the_ leading imperial power in the world."

Black smiled at his own cleverness. "Muggles have their uses. With William on the throne…"

"I still don't understand how a Dutchman managed to take the English throne!" Prewitt interrupted.

Black continued, "With William of Orange on the throne, we are now in position to take control of Europe. Within fifty years, England will rule India, West Africa, and North America—all from the Ministry of Magic in London."

Gaunt added, "My people have just secured England's position in the Grand Alliance against the French."

"How on earth did you manage that?" Matthew Bagshot asked.

"Gold," Black said, bemused. "Lots of African gold."

Gaunt clarified, "And religion! Muggles are always up in arms about their religion. Tell them it's for country, and no more than a quarter will move. Tell them it's for money, and half will raise their hands. But tell them it's for the Church, and every able Englishman will show up with torches and pitchforks."

"Here, here!" cried a slightly inebriated Black.

"I won't say it's been easy," Gaunt continued, "but I will say we've done well. I've bought enough bishops and members of parliament that, with the Statute of Secrecy in place, we will run things from the Ministry without oversight or hindrance."

"What about those who oppose us?" Yaxley asked.

"That's why he's bought bishops!" Black laughed.

Malfoy mused, "Haven't you ever wondered how the English bishops choose their victims?"

"You three set up all those witch burnings?" Bagshot asked.

Gaunt shot an ominous look at Bagshot. "Don't be naïve. We didn't start the Inquisition! We didn't distribute the _Malleus Maleficarum_! But since we've, well, taken over the responsibly of choosing who goes to the stake, there have been far less burnings. I, for one, am damn proud to say that wizards now maintain direct control over who gets burned in England."

Malfoy added sardonically, "Besides, most of the time its Muggles we burn. The village priests don't know the difference!"

Just then, a hooded and heavily armored French warlock suddenly approached Gaunt with his halberd at port arms. "Your graces, we ask that you and the rest of the English delegates retire to the safety of the maison now." Black nodded as he recognized him as one of the parliamentary centurions. Outside the mansion's gates, a force of 164 master warlocks stood guard around the perimeter of the grounds. With a nod, the remaining members of the English delegation made their way through the portico and into the great hall as their ever–respectful elves carried their glasses, plates, and accouterment.

With a loud clang, the front doors were barred shut. "Better behave!" Yaxley playfully warned Bagshot, Diggory, and Prewitt. To their right, five centurions marched by in lock–step formation. The gilded hall was covered in New World gold and wealth. Rich tapestries from the Orient covered the windows, while the finest Parisian artisans had been hired to finish the baroque details of the chandelier–lined hall. In the courtyard outside, the warlocks were busy maintaining the protective circle of magic around the building.

The five centurions silently approached the Supreme Mugwump at the head of the hall. After a moment of whispers, the Wind–Minister, an elder warlock to the Mugwump's left, cried out, "The circle has been cast!" Taking his time to survey the room, the warlock made sure his men were in position. "The sacred rites of parliament will begin on the hour." From across the colonized earth, 1,300 witches and wizards were gathered in the great hall. In the history of the wizarding world, no meeting of this size had ever taken place. Many thought it was impossible. The warlock, himself an Englishman in the winter of his life, found Black and Malfoy in the crowd and nodded approvingly at the men who had once valiantly saved his own daughter from death by burning at the stake. When this meeting was first conceived, some had desired to bring Indians from the New World, and for Sub–Saharan Africa to sponsor delegates. But these were serious matters, and the elder warlock knew such talk to be nonsense. Every wizard worth his salt knew that the proper language of wizardry was Latin, and the font of magical knowledge was rightfully England.

While the French and Germans now had their own wizarding schools, England's institutions like Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic would always be the standard behind which the rest of the world marched. The Spanish had brought back stories of Indian shape–shifters. The Dutch reputedly witnessed powerful witchcraft in South Africa. _But these were primitives—not real wizards at all_, thought the self–satisfied warlock.

Suddenly, there was a commotion in the crowd on the right side of the hall. The Sand–Minister hit his gavel several times but to no avail. The commotion came to an abrupt end when a man was flung from within the crowd and spilled into the middle of the oval–shaped parliament. The five centurions readied their magically–charged weapons as they stood guard before the ministers' table. "What is this?" the Flame–Minister cried out.

"A priest! He's a priest!" an anonymous voice called out. Like the rest of the parliament, the priest was adorned in a black ministerial cloak. He wore a French blue sash with yellow fleur–de–lis.

"So what?" cried an inebriated wizard from the other side of the room. "We Germans are all _Lutherans_ now!" A few laughs followed.

"But he is a _secret_ priest, sent to spy on us!" yelled back a member of the group from the right again.

The Wind–Minister watched the priest slowly stand up and shake silently in the audience of the parliament as a gap opened in the crowd around him. "What say you, Frenchman? Have you renounced the Pope?"

The priest held the sides of his cloak and jerked his head left and then right. From all sides he felt the pressure of the parliament upon him. "I swear to uphold this confederation. But, your grace, I owe my spiritual allegiance to the Holy Father and the Catholic Church." Members of the crowd began to yell. A few wizards threw books at the priest, which incited more yelling from all sides of the room. The centurions approached the priest, extending their halberds in his direction.

The Wind–Minister raised his hand, imposing a quiet to come over the crowd. "Wizards," he intoned, "we are not as capricious and fickle as the Church Catholic." He then turned to the priest. "Tell me, _Father_, here and now—for you cannot be both a Catholic and a wizard. Do you renounce the Church, and do you agree from this day forward to use your position and influence in the Church solely for the furtherance of the wizarding world?"

A calm then came over the priest. He took his time, looking into the eyes of the wizards in his immediate view. He saw them differently now. He watched the blue sashes, the red sashes, the white and green sashes, the purple sashes—all blur and fade away. He felt sorry for the parliament. He met eyes with Reza, though only for a moment. As part of the Sultan's delegation, Reza had been attempting to translate the parliament's events to his Persian counterparts. The Persian emissary, a rotund bureaucratic dullard with a penchant for wine and girls, was too busy ogling the English house elves.

"I want one, Reza! You must speak to the English for me. I will pay any price!" the bejeweled creature begged.

"I think they mean to kill the priest!" Reza quickly whispered to the emissary.

But the delight of the emissary would not be undone as he pushed Reza aside to get a better look. "Should we not intervene?" Reza asked, now gripping his cypress–wrapped sword hilt.

The priest declared, "It is wrong, my brothers, what the Inquisition has done in the reconquering of Spain. I know that. But _this_—demanding that I renounce my faith—this is no better!"

Merak Black then stepped forward and pointed for a long, silent moment at the priest. "TRAITOR!" Black called out to the priest. "Do you serve the Muggle Pope, or do you serve Wizard–kind?" The priest began to smile, which seemed to enrage Black. "Do you know how many witches have been burned by your Pope? Do you know how many close friends—good and noble Englishmen and women—I've seen turned to ash?"

The priest shook his head, "It doesn't have to be this way."

The flame–minister then raised two fingers and pointed them at the priest. _"Avada Kedavra!"_ the closest centurion cried out, and with a gesture of his halberd the priest was no more. This sent shockwaves through the parliament. The Persian delegation was among those cheering the public execution. Reza turned his head in a rage, only to meet eyes with members of the English delegation to his left.

"Does that disturb you, Persian?" asked Gaunt.

"Yes," Reza responded in English. "That man was innocent of any charge."

As the crowd continued to clamor, the Englishman shook his head smiling and clapping with the rest. "He was a traitor to his own kind." Reza grimaced and shook his head. "What?" the Englishman asked over the noise.

Reza responded, "I'm not sure if _I'm_ one of you'rekind."

The Englishman laughed, "No, you're not one of us." He then looked over to his platinum blond friend and patted him on the back. "But you'll soon learn your place," he said with a laugh. The blond wizard nodded and began to walk to the empty center of the parliament.

"Friends, you've all read my findings in the latest edition of _Warlock at War_." He raised his hands out to his sides in a reassuring gesture. "These are troubling times we live in. Wizardry in England is considered an unnatural abomination. It is, in fact, a capital offense. And it is high time for all good and able–bodied wizards to rise up together and place a permanent ban on the Muggle world for the safety and security of our kind! There will be no peace until we shed ourselves of their sciences and ignoble religions. Wizard–kind possessed the true knowledge for millennia! We alone can apprehend the great mysteries. We alone can drink from the fount of nature and receive from her bosom the spoils of paradise!"

The crowd cheered as Reza watched a thousand years of progress dissolve in the name of greed and security. The First International Wizarding Council seemed little more to the old Persian than an opportunity for thugs and criminals to plot the destruction of the world. The name _Hogwarts_ was invoked more than once during the blond's torrid speech. It appeared the school—after Slytherin's untimely departure—remained a success after seven hundred years! Reza looked disdainfully at the English delegation. The man who spoke to him earlier was nodding joyfully throughout the speech. But then, to his surprise, he found that others in his entourage were not as gleeful. Suddenly, the crowd was cheering again as the blond wizard made his way back into the crowd.

"Go now!" demanded the Persian cherub. "Buy me an English house elf!"

Reza took in a deep breath and turned his gaze sharply toward the Englishmen and walked cordially but forcefully through the crowd. He then ran across a freckled wizard with bright orange hair.

"You must be from the Ottoman delegation," the orange wizard yelled over the clamor of the crowd.

"Persian."

"What?" the Englishman yelled over the voices.

"I'm… nevermind. Is _he_ your master?" Reza asked as he pointed to the blond wizard.

"My, what? No, no! You've got it all wrong. We're equals—well, more or less. The name's Prewitt. John Prewitt."

"Reza al–Jinn bin Mahmud bin Rashid bin Hassan bin Musa. I am from the holy city of Qom."

Prewitt looked the Persian up and down. "Nice sword, Reza."

"Thank you, it was hard to come by. Listen, the Persian emissary wants one of your elves."

"What? I can't hear you!" Prewitt gestured over to a side corridor of the mansion. The two swiftly made their way across as the Wind–Minister continued to blather on about taxation schemes. Once Reza and Prewitt were alone, Prewitt continued. "What about the elves?" he asked with a puzzled look on his face.

"How did you procure your elves?" Reza asked.

"I don't have any elves. You'd have to speak to Black or Malfoy about that. You could ask Gaunt, but I'm not sure he'd speak to anyone who wasn't English," Prewitt laughed, despite his intention not to.

"You… find the ownership of elves amusing?"

"Amusing?" Prewitt's smile disappeared. "No, I don't. I think it's a disgrace if you want my honest opinion on the matter. I think this whole thing is a game between about twelve people in this room, and judging by the way you're asking questions, I don't think you're one of the twelve."

Reza smiled. "No, Mr. Prewitt. I am not one of the twelve. I am a simple man who has lived a long life of service."

"Really? You don't look that old."

"My grandfather, Rashid bin Hassan, fought at the Battle of Gaugamela."

"Gaugamela? Never heard of it. Who won?"

"Alexander the Great."

Prewitt laughed and patted Reza on the arm. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I'm not one of the twelve either. But it's been made clear to me that if I don't vote tonight with the rest of England for the International Statute of Secrecy that I might as well douse myself in whiskey, tie myself to a stake in front of Westminster Abbey tomorrow, and start screaming that I'm the reincarnation of Judas Iscariot."

Reza looked cautiously at the Englishman. Beneath his veneer of playfulness and irony, he possessed an anger about the way the English were handling themselves. Cautiously, Reza pulled the ring of Urobara from under his shirt and unhooked it from his necklace. "Are your parents Muggle–born?"

John Prewitt still couldn't quite figure out the intriguing Persian before him. "No, my parents, God rest their souls, were purebloods. Why?"

"Put this ring on, Mr. Prewitt," Reza asked.

Prewitt raised an eyebrow but then abandoned his momentary trepidation and, as was always his style, went with the more dangerous route. He slid the ring on and noticed that the voices in the room seemed much more muffled than before. He then turned to Reza, whose voice was clear as a bell.

"Now, look to your blond wizard."

Prewitt did so, and found, to his astonishment, that Malfoy and Black were both speaking privately with the Supreme Mugwump—despite a great distance between them—in Parseltongue! Prewitt shot a glance back at Reza in horror.

"It's much worse than you think," Reza explained. "I'm afraid the governing body of this assembly and their pretense of democracy is a sham."

"I'm inclined to agree with you!" Prewitt added. "But this bill—no matter what you say or do—it's gonna get passed. If you draw attention to yourself, you'll stand no chance of leaving here alive. You saw what they did to the priest."

"I have no intention of making a scene. My people as a rule prefer to stay in the background. We are… unique." Reza then took back the ring as Prewitt handed the ancient tool back to its keeper. "But tell me, Mr. Prewitt, who these men are so that I may keep an eye on those who would write the destinies of so many."

Prewitt thought for a moment and decided that this was one of those rare occasions where he was going to do something either exceedingly brave or exceedingly foolish. Then that cautionary feeling was gone and he relented to his learned acquaintance's query. "Well, the politician over there is William Gaunt. He's had a part to play in every major political change in England for the last forty years. Next is Merak Black. His is the oldest magical family we have on record in England. The Venerable Bede wrote two pages on the Blacks that have since been removed from the Muggle records. Black makes a lot of noise, but mostly he's just the inheritor of a great deal of wealth. That leaves his protégé, Brutus Malfoy. He's hungry. He's worked his way to the top, crushing anyone in his path." Prewitt took a breath and stared intently at his Persian companion, his small hand now gripping Reza's arm as he unconsciously pleaded for help. "If there's anyone with the temerity to end the very world itself in a quest for personal fame and fortune, it's Malfoy."

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A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing


	17. Ave Maria

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. The character "Cassidy" is the intellectual property of . No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

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CHAPTER 17: Ave Maria

Szczecin, Poland

Monday, the Sixth Night

_For Muggles, the world is likened to a machine. What little music there is in the world is as cold as a ticking clock. Birds lay eggs for eating and live in forests grown for cutting down, by rivers dammed for their hydroelectric power. It all makes perfect sense to a Muggle. They do not see as a werewolf sees, and so they do not understand the world as it truly is. Children and aged Muggles—they sometimes see it. White–headed Muggles marvel at the moon from the comfort of their porches. To children who are not hidden away by their parents in claustrophobic tenements, the deep woods are indeed magical. But they forget this in time._

_On the other hand, for werewolves, the world is an organic integral whole that ebbs and flows with the very essence of life. In the struggle to survive, all things affect each other as they coalesce into a collective unity. Muggles dryly call this collective, "nature." But it is much more than that. To a werewolf, this unity is the song of the cosmos that resonates with all the creatures in the forest, the fish in the river, the deer in the meadow, and the birds in the sky. One song. The uni–verse._

Walking toward the gaudy, profane, neon–streaked dance club, Piotr considered the relative ignorance of Muggles. He turned back briefly to watch his fixer's black Range Rover speed down the wet street on its way back to Gdańsk. Piotr's team was in place, and, oddly enough, it was a witch to whom his thanks was owed. Hermione Granger, a British witch whose leadership and sympathetic voice were known well to the werewolves of Europe had approached the Wilkołaki Polska with intimate details concerning the Massacre at Birka. Her charisma and passion took the lupine leadership entirely by surprise. The intel she had to offer was simply stunning; what she demanded was equally stunning. In return for her information, she wanted a fighting force. The pack leaders—all of whom were insanely territorial—were equally distraught by the loss of their kin, while remaining completely distrusting of one another. They knew, without outside assistance, that petty border disputes could serve to hinder their joint pursuit. Thus was Hermione's role entrusted to her as leader of thirty-six clandestine werewolf operatives. Twenty-four had dispersed from Gdańsk, Poland. Two were in Szczecin this night.

Piotr had known the right favors to call in from Gdańsk and felt confident in his plan as he now approached the grill–covered window through which the club bouncer could be seen. "I'm looking for the Mjølner," Piotr called out in English. Piotr was an accomplished Polish soldier—a square–jawed, lean man with intense brown eyes that peered through precise, wire–rimmed glasses. Through the bone breaks and heartaches of countless military deployments, Piotr was a resolute and highly–focused hunter. He was used to making the hard choices. Now, he had summoned all of his powers and talents to finding the witch who had murdered nearly a third of his wolf pack. But that wasn't _why_ he was hunting her. No, for Piotr, this was far more personal.

The bouncer nodded and turned his head, yelling to a group of bouncers in the club. One approached and switched places with the seated bouncer. This one was much larger, with ropey arms that displayed a tattoo of a crescent moon. Piotr began again, ""I'm looking for the Mjølner." The man nodded as he aimed a suppressed Mark XIX Desert Eagle pistol just over the counter at Piotr's face.

"Have you asked Thrym about it?" replied the bouncer. This was the expected challenge. Piotr nodded nonchalantly. He turned to take in his surroundings in full. Szczecin was a port city, overlooking the Swedish coast to the north with Berlin less than 130 kilometers to the west. When the cover of night overtook downtown, the medieval alleyways, broken neon lights, and abandoned warehouses brought a sense of anonymity to those who found themselves in the old city. Nonetheless, Piotr knew he had the right place and had been told the bouncer's _challenge–response_ for weapon–holding by his fixer shortly before exiting the Range Rover.

"Heimdallr sent me," Piotr responded.

The bouncer nodded as he hit a buzzer. "Keep it quiet," the bouncer remarked as the door to the club popped ajar. Once Piotr was inside, the ubiquitous fair faces, black coats, and denim jeans were at once striking and forgettable as one strobe–lit, nubile youth blurred into the next amidst the thumping techno beats. Piotr focused on the moneyed patrons in cheap suits occupying the tables flanking the dance floors and suspended cages. About fifteen minutes ago, Piotr had watched Maria enter the club from the relative obscurity of the Range Rover. The anonymity of the old medieval downtown should have provided the perfect cover for the evil witch and her cohort of thugs and werewolf killers. But then, one of Cassidy's gifts was finding people, particularly people who did not want to be found.

Piotr had known Cassidy for years as a Wolfhaus regular in Heidelberg. Cassidy was a large, Irish werewolf with a long blond mane and a penchant for whiskey. When he was obeying the law, he was a freelance photojournalist who split his time between the continent and the emerald isle. When he was off the clock, which was often the case, he focused his time on lupine business. Sometimes that involved smuggling wolfsbane across borders. Sometimes that involved investigating a werewolf disappearance. Piotr was thankful that it had been Cassidy who had taken the photographs of the Massacre at Birka almost two weeks ago. It had been Cassidy who brought him the news. It had been Cassidy who had searched the bodies for Kasia—Piotr's missing wife.

This was the reason Piotr was now standing in the middle of an underground, post–Soviet discothèque. Much whiskey and vodka had been spilt between the two wolves over their fifteen–year friendship. Piotr had come to recognize the sound of Cassidy's panhead motorcycle engine and knew something was wrong when he heard it rumbling up to his house a fortnight back. Together, the two wolves armed themselves to the teeth and took to the highway in their search for Kasia. It had been she who had really taught Piotr how to be a wolf. Every full moon, Piotr would apply a few droplets of wolfsbane to a small glass of his favorite 25-year-old single malt, take off his clothes, put on an old record, and wait alone for the change. When it came, he would run through the forest in pure ecstasy seeking out Kasia who had her own private ritual. He would hunt her across forest and valley. Sometimes, she would hunt him—his powerful, midnight black coat shining in the magic of the moonlight as she ran madly in pursuit. There was a particular clearing she enjoyed, where Kasia could see the rocks, the trees, and the river flowing through them. When she entered it she neither wept nor laughed. No, she did something that preceded human notions of language. She would gird her sable coat and then howl with everything in her toward the moon that offered the sweet gift of its pure light. In doing so, everything was made beautiful and new.

Piotr allowed himself to revel in the memory of his Kasia until he finally discovered the elder witch's entourage going downstairs and into the club's basement level. He could see Kasia in his mind for one final, brief moment—her blonde curls and smiling green eyes. Then, Piotr put such thoughts behind him as he descended into the bellowing, bass–filled pit of tripping, undulating teenagers. The darkness and cacophony masked all manner of dark deeds below. Piotr knew not to 'give into the wolf' in such a public place. While it was not the full moon, he could, if properly motivated, go completely berserk and destroy everything from the lights to the mirrors, to the flesh of the nightclub patrons as his animal id was allowed to overtake him.

Piotr adjusted his glasses and worked his way ever closer to the back of the downstairs area. He had their scent now and would not lose them easily. He suddenly paused when he took notice of two personal guards in plainclothes—neither of whom outweighed him. The one to the right was left–handed. Looking to their boots and general demeanor, they were not military, at least not GROM, KSK, or Spetsnaz. Piotr was in his old, unmarked Polish Army jacket. He took in the scene, attempting to look casual. The two had no comm equipment and no discernible marks. They also looked about the same age, which Piotr placed at about 19. Then he saw it—the one thing that would have gone completely unnoticed by anyone else in the club. They had each had a wand in a specially–cut long cargo pants pocket. Piotr fell back into the crowd. He thought for a moment that the Righty had caught his eye. He looked to see if he made a comment about it to Lefty. He did not. Piotr unlocked his phone and discreetly texted, "Maria dwnstrs. 2 tangos. wizrds w wands n civ clothes."

A moment later, his phone lit up. "I know. 2 o'clock." Piotr looked up and could barely see the outline of Cassidy's ponytail and well–worn duster off to his right. The two wolves made eye contact. Cassidy then looked down. Piotr's phone again came alive. "Maria is in a room behind the 2 schoolboys. Shall we?" Piotr put his phone away and set his sights to the very back of the club. He walked forcefully and with singular purpose, breezing by the two wayward wizards.

"Stop! Nie są dozwolone!" Lefty called out, but it was too late.

"Hey, boys! Póg mo thóin!" Cassidy yelled from behind them. As Lefty turned, Cassidy smashed his beer bottle across the wizard's teeth. Righty began to reach for his wand but was thwarted in the attempt by Piotr, who deftly placed the wizard in a pronating wrist–lock, which drove him to the floor. Piotr then whipped a slapjack out from his coat and knocked Righty then Lefty out cold. Cassidy nodded expectantly as the only two patrons not high enough to ignore the violence ran upstairs.

"We don't have much time," the Irishman cautioned. Piotr adjusted his glasses and turned silently to the corridor of black concrete walls and metal doors beyond. "Call her!" Cassidy yelled to the incensed werewolf. Piotr complied as he pulled the Dumbledore's Army coin they'd each been given from his pocket and input the necessary formula into the charm.

The two wolves were now walking in a florescent–lit warehouse, shuttered off from the rest of the world. "Easy there, Tiger," Cassidy called out to an enraged Piotr out–pacing him. "She's not going to be alone behind door number one. We need the witch alive!" Piotr was in his own world. "Alive, Piotr!" Cassidy grabbed Piotr's arm. Piotr snarled at Cassidy, his eyes now more wolf than man. Cassidy snarled back, louder and angrier than Piotr as he grabbed Piotr's jacket and held his old friend still.

Cassidy reached into his back pocket and pulled out a flask. "You've got two choices, Petey. Either you take the wolfsbane, or you take it down a notch and go in there with your wits about ye." Piotr was shaking as he grit his teeth and dug his fingernails into his hands. "They took her, boyo. They took our Kasia. And if it's the last thing I do on this green earth, we will find her…Look at me, brother!" Piotr looked up and met Cassidy's gaze. Cassidy then threw the wolfsbane into a pile of rubble. "We will find her, together." Piotr ceased his snarling and a moment later nodded silently. "Good! Now let's go hunt us a backstabbing witch!"

The two arrived at a non–descript door that still held the scent Piotr had been following. Cassidy gave the door a small nudge. It was unlocked. Piotr pulled his blued survival knife from his army boot and nodded at Cassidy. The two wolves then proceeded to enter what appeared to be a 1970s bureaucrats' office complex, empty save for a few old, Soviet–era desks. As Piotr entered, he could hear voices in the next room over as he saw Cassidy sniffing the air. The two met eyes and nodded. Creeping up to the doorway, they could hear a meeting going on in German. A woman was reassuring several young men about a trip they were about to take. One of the men was concerned about the Durmstrang Wizard School. The woman was reassuring but curt in her responses. Piotr lightly patted Cassidy on the back and took a forward position. He needed to be the first in the room.

Piotr waited for a moment, until the woman started speaking again, and then casually entered. Six tangos, including the raven–haired witch. A bewildered man in a red cloak started to reach for Piotr but not before Piotr swung his knife out and rested it neatly against the man's carotid artery. Cassidy came spinning into the room holding one of Piotr's 9mm pistols. "Oy! Hands where I can see 'em!" All obliged. To Cassidy's count, there were three high–school–aged boys in the room, two red–robed men, and Maria. "So, you're here to turn these boys into werewolf killers, I see," Cassidy chided. Piotr was intimidatingly quiet. Maria glowered at Cassidy. The other robed wizard was next to her on the left. "Ok, boys. Off you go now. Stay in school and off the drugs, yeah?" All was still for just a moment longer.

The robed man under Piotr's knife began to shout, "Fritz, helft mir! Töten diesem schweinhunden!" Piotr's eyes opened wide as he swung his gaze from one red–robed wizard to the other. Neither one was moving. Piotr's gaze returned to the man under his knife.

"Pete!" Cassidy shouted. Piotr's gaze shot back to the distant wizard as his arm followed suit. The wizard had a wand in his hand and, a moment later, a black knife in his throat. Two of the students began to scream. One of them stood on his chair with his hands high in the air. Piotr stood with his powerful hand around the other wizard's throat. "Shut it!" Cassidy screamed, but it was no use. Cassidy was sure now that more would die. "Maria, you are responsible for the deaths of countless werewolves and we're taking you in."

"_Arresto Momentum!" _Maria cried with her hand outstretched toward Piotr. Cassidy got one shot off in Maria's direction before the now freed wizard to his immediate left tackled him into the hallway. Cassidy and the red–robed wizard wrestled across the old yellow–tiled corridor. The wizard had some size but was simply no match for Cassidy's brute strength, once Cassidy let the wolf out. He grabbed the wizard, faced him nose–to–nose, and bellowed a blood–curdling howl— the kind of howl that preceded mealtime—it left the wizard screaming in absolute horror.

Cassidy reared back and was ready to tear him open when he noticed one of two schoolboys aiming their wands at him. "Kennst du die unverzeihliche Zauber?" one said to the other.

"Ja. _Expelliarmus_… jawohl?"

"Nein. _Abracadabra_!"

"_Abra_… Nein! Nein. _Avra_ _Kedabra_!"

The first boy then turned his wand to Cassidy and yelled, "_Avra Kedabra_!" which had no effect.

"Es ist _AVADA KED–AV–RA_!" Maria called from the adjoining room.

The second boy nodded in Maria's direction and lowered his wand to an increasingly concerned Cassidy. "Avada…"

"_Expelliarmus_!" cried the powerful witch running up the corridor. The boy lost his wand and looked to the other in fear. "_Stupify! Stupify_!" she then cried in quick succession. Cassidy turned to see the witch. It was Hermione Granger, with about two–dozen werewolves. The young witch was clad from neck to toes in black with her brown curls tied back to reveal her fearsome visage. When she stopped running, she held up a finger on her left hand, which caused the werewolves behind her to stop. "Cassidy," the witch intoned, "leave him be." She then raised her left hand and spoke forcefully, "I am come for the mad–witch Maria de las Serpientes." She looked from one side of the room to the other. "I will have her obedience, or I will have her head." She then lowered her left hand, and the throng of werewolves scattered across the rooms, searching for Maria. Two of them helped Cassidy up, and four apprehended the soiled wizard on the floor. Two went immediately for the door to Hermione's left and found Maria and Piotr. A moment later, the two were flung wildly out of the room. Hermione walked solemnly toward the door. Inside the old meeting room, she saw Piotr under a freezing spell, and Maria on the floor on her hands and knees. She was bleeding from her abdomen.

Hermione dismissed the spell holding Piotr and then turned to Maria. "Cassidy got a round off before he…" Piotr said.

"Shhhhhh." Hermione put her finger to her mouth. She then gestured to the door, but Piotr refused. Hermione then nodded at him briefly and turned her attention to the witch on all fours. Hermione gestured her hand briefly and Maria came tumbling backward into her chair, losing the wand she had just regained in her hand. "Accio bullet," Hermione spoke softly. Maria screamed in agony as the bullet slowly pulled out of its small hole and toward Hermione. "Now, Maria, I give the word, and these hounds will have you for supper." Hermione then took another step toward Maria and knelt down before her. "You see, you killed their mates." She then twisted her face as she felt the cold sting of revenge flow through her veins, "And you nearly killed my Ronnie." Maria's lips were turning blue. She had lost quite a bit of blood by now. "So, here's what we're going to do. We're going to patch you up and take you with us. And I will protect you so long as you are honest with me." She then looked over to the wolf behind her. "But, if you try to turn on me, I swear I will hand you over to Piotr."

With a cold, emotionless stare, Piotr quietly retrieved his lucky knife and wiped the remaining wizard off the blade. He then studied its razor–edge before scraping the blade across his cheek as he stared emptily at Maria. After a long moment he dropped his knife–hand toward the ground, closed his eyes, and took in the mad witch's scent. It was invigorating to finally find his prey. He then opened his eyes, and in a steady, firm tone assured Maria of her life's purpose. "You will tell me where my Kasia is."

"Wh… Who?" Maria asked.

"_Legillimens_!" Hermione cried out with outstretched hands. She, too, felt invigorated as she ripped violently through the mind of the turn–coat witch. Outside the small meeting room, Durmstrang wizards and wolf–kind both stood silently in fear and awe.

"Mein Gott!" one red–robed wizard finally let out, as everyone stood listening to the interrogation behind the door. Shocks of light penetrated the halls as a distant window let in the lightning from outside. For just a moment, Cassidy thought the lightning was coming from Granger.

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A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing.


	18. Tartarus

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

CHAPTER 18: Tartarus

Tartarus, Underworld

Past the boats of the damned, the Asphodel Fields, and the Barren Cliffs, Draco and the unicorn sped toward the fiery city of Tartarus. Draco observed that the mist and black fog over the River Lethe seemed to part just in front of the unicorn's majestic horn. The way forward was lit by the faint glow of the immaculate beast. There was something about being in the presence of the unicorn that made him feel safe. No—it was more than a feeling of safety. The unicorn was a psychological wellspring. Draco felt centeredand calm. The love he bore his son and his family felt magnified. In Nymphadora's shimmering presence, he felt completely reconciled with her. It had been easy to convey to her the protectiveness he felt toward her son —for Draco knew all too well the life of a boy helpless to shape his own destiny. In the warm glow of the unicorn's presence, all fear, hatred, and sadness were behind him.

Draco looked below and saw the tar–black waters of the Lethe ripple under the powerful gallop of his mount. To his left, Draco saw the destination of the boats. A pier sat in waiting with several expectant guardians at the shore. Draco heard a woman screaming in the distance but could not see her. He squinted and could make out that there were several people at the shore behind the guardians. Their flesh was uncovered, but beyond this he could see nothing. The unicorn travelled onward.

Draco took in a breath and began to turn when he noticed one of the guardians leaving the pier and lurching in Draco's general direction. Judging roughly by his speed and angle, it looked as if the creature would be there to meet them in front of the city once Draco and the unicorn made landfall. Draco tucked his head in and jabbed his boots into the unicorn's sides again and again in the hope that they might outrun the creature.

As the unicorn gained speed, Draco stole a glance at the massive city. Tartarus was easily 100 kilometers wide. It lay at the foot of the Lethe, with its buildings possessing a burned–out or even bombed–out appearance. There was no living thing, and no sources of light except for the smokeless fire that gave the city an ominous, buttery–amber hue. From a distance, the city had the appearance of a match lit against a starless night sky.

As Draco observed this, he sensed something approaching from behind him on his right side. He turned his head slightly but could see only a light–blue haze. He put his forehead against the crest of the unicorn and felt comforted as the beast pressed fearlessly onward. With his head down, he could see the bright blue light again—only now it was coming from both his left and right sides. He looked up and beheld not one, but two brilliantly–lit magical protectors. On his right, Draco found a doe Patronus running across the Lethe. On his right, a werewolf Patronus ran headlong toward the coast. Draco jerked his head back to the shore. The foul guardian from the dock had arrived and was raising his enormous hammer in defiance of the light.

Draco could now see the pale creature in full. He possessed a wiry beard out of which protruded two massive tusks. Giant snakes coiled around his greasy arms and legs. In the final moments before Draco made landfall, he could also see the creature's pointed ears and bulbous, yellow eyes.

"Come to Kharon!" the creature roared as the two Patroni plowed into his cursed body in a burst of bright light. This had the effect of knocking Kharon back several feet away from Draco's landfall. As the unicorn reached solid ground, he stopped, giving Draco a moment to watch in amazement as the Patroni continued to assault the guardian. Kharon threw his hammer at the unicorn but missed both the wizard and his mount.

At that moment, from the city's hilltop gates, Draco could see a dark warlord riding to the shore. He carried no flag and held no weapon. The doe Patronus turned when it sensed the warrior's approach. A moment later, the werewolf Patronus followed suit. Kharon lay still among the rocks on the ground, his great arms quivering over his abdomen. "Hold," the dark warlord called out as he raised his empty right hand. Draco pulled back slightly on the unicorn's mane, and the unicorn turned to face the approaching danger. Draco could now see the fighter's appearance in full. He was clad in Celtic iron mail that covered a simple black tunic. He wore a silver neck ring under his wild black beard. Deep–set eyes peered from beside the dented nose–guard of his blackened Saxon helm. From boot to head, his entire body was scrubbed in ashen soot. On his back he carried a well–worn, two–handed Dane–axe. Draco imagined what sort of creature such a weapon might cleave when the warrior addressed him directly, "Draco, son of Lucius, welcome."

Draco called out hesitantly, "How do you know my name?"

"I always recognize my own," the warlord responded. Kharon began to hurl what could only be obscenities at the warlord. The warrior then faced the bested guardian and in a lower register intoned a harsh–sounding command that Draco could not begin to understand. And Kharon lay perfectly still.

Draco looked back at the warlord. "Your own?" Draco asked.

"I am Ealdwulf, the Dane Killer," the warlord responded. He then removed his cindered black helmet. What was revealed was a striking, familiar, angular face with piercing brown eyes and a prominent nose, framed by flowing black hair. "I am the first to be called by the name _Black_." Draco's eyes widened as his grip on the unicorn's mane began to slip. "I am Edward's Bane—the Shadow of Wessex." The warlord then paused before adding, "And the disciple of Salazar Slytherin." Draco sat staring blankly at his ancestor. Ealdwulf continued, "Come, Draco. It is time for the master of Malfoy Manor to meet his destiny." He did not wait for a response. Instead, Ealdwulf turned his horse back to the city, re–donned his helmet, and galloped back the way he came.

Draco then observed some movement at the ramparts of the city walls. As Ealdwulf continued toward the great walled city, the low bellow of horns greeted him and carried their resonant tone across the Lethe. Draco lightly pressed his ankles into the unicorn's sides and at once was speeding across the acrid landscape. It was then that Draco recognized why the walls to the city, some 100 meters high, were so brightly lit. Between the landscape and the walls was a wide drop of several kilometers in which roiling fire and molten rock acted as a protective moat. The only perceivable way in or out of the city was a narrow bridge, barely wide enough for a man.

As Draco approached the bridge, which Ealdwulf was now crossing, he saw that the bridge was entirely transparent. In fact, there looked to be no bridge at all—only parallel black chains running across the width of the moat. Draco pulled back on the unicorn's mane when he witnessed this, but the unicorn persisted. With a loud _clop_, the unicorn laid a solid hoof between the black chains. Then another. After a few moments, the unicorn was galloping across the fiery moat and into the city of Tartarus. Draco turned once more to see his Patroni guardians, but they stopped at the bridge—unwilling to cross.

With increasing trepidation, Draco crossed the bridge. As he came closer to the city gates, he saw that the exterior was littered with small creatures laboring to build or repair the walls with the indigenous stone material lying in scattered heaps. The laborers appeared much like the boatmen—boney and grey in color, but were headless, and about a meter high at the shoulders. When one of them turned to 'see' the approaching unicorn—it flinched and cowered behind another of its kind. It then let out a sort of omnidirectional growl from its gut.

As he crossed the moat and approached the entrance to the city, Draco found three giants guarding its fortified gate. The first giant possessed a mouth and ears, but no eyes. It gnashed and swiped at the damned that came within its reach. The second giant, clothed in shining plated armor, possessed a face that was entirely a mouth of rotting teeth, with pointed ears protruding at the sides. His steady hand and low timber voice guided the first giant. The last giant was a pallid creature in tattered robes. He possessed eyes and ears, but no mouth. He wept constantly as the first giant devoured the damned. As Draco approached the three, the second giant spoke.

"_Be still!_" he commanded the first giant. "I smell mortal flesh!" At this, the first giant stopped his violent rage against the damned, while the third giant fell back, closed his eyes, and laid his heavy hand upon his great head.

"I am Draco. I am here at Ealdwulf's invitation."

The second giant turned his great maw to the third, and then the first giant and laughed, "We know you well, Draco Malfoy." The giant looked down and took note of the ring of Urobara. At this, the great gate began to open. "You are welcome here to treat with the House of Black." Draco nodded as he approached the door between the second and third giants. "Interesting," mused the second giant. Draco looked up to the voice, but was repulsed by his disgusting mouth and continued into the city as his Ego and Id began to laugh again.

Before Draco, the dark warlord rode into the city streets toward a burned out building in the distance. The streets were covered in the grey laborers and other dark creatures Draco did not stop long enough to see clearly. The fauna of the earth were painfully twisted here, tormented by their masters who were in turn tormented by masters of their own. No one bore clothes or personal effects of any kind. Much of their flesh and most of their humanity was now gone from them entirely. Their identities had been distilled to mere sensations—anguish, misery, and unremitting suffering. The wails of the damned contrasted greatly with the majesty of the unicorn, which galloped through their ranks with great ease.

Draco's stomach lurched as he beheld the profane and violent indignities of the multitude upon one another. He wondered if the ring shielded him from an even greater psychological burden here, but thought it better not to remove it to find out. He pressed on, attempting as best as he could to avert his gaze. He tried to think on better things, but no gentle thought could remain with him for more than a moment's respite. The further into the city he went, the darker his thoughts grew.

At long last, Draco approached the burnt–out building. It had the appearance of an old country pub that had been fire–bombed. The stone masonry was right, but the smoldering roof looked chewed through by some beast Draco hoped very much not to see. In front of the public house, Ealdwulf was on foot and unhelmed next to his horse. Draco carefully dismounted the unicorn and planted two firm feet on the infernal ground. All at once, Draco felt the gravity of the Underworld upon him. The constant beating of hammer against stone filled the gaseous air, occasionally interrupted by a blood–curdling scream. But the unicorn simply stood there, watching Draco and Ealdwulf.

Ealdwulf had the face of a wild man and the repose of a Black. The old Saxon noticed Draco watching him and smiled. "Do I look strange to you, boy?"

"Are you kidding me? We're in the Underworld! This whole place gives me the creeps!"

Ealdwulf laughed, "Are you frightened?"

"No more than you are of this unicorn," Draco snapped back.

Ealdwulf nodded, "Good... You will make us proud, Draco, son of Black." Ealdwulf then turned and walked through the pub's doorless opening. "Come. I am not for words; that talent falls to others. You've been summoned by William Gaunt, and we will need Brutus to guide us. But first we must pull him from Yaxley."

The rubble–reduced, dust–filled room was crammed with imbibing patrons. Both man and floor were covered in alcohol, spit, and other unsavory secretions. As the two Blacks made their way through the throng, Draco thought he recognized the platinum blond man who was talking to another drowning himself in drink. The blond man looked up and smiled. "Draco!" he cried out. Brutus Malfoy wore a tattered and matted black wizard's robe. His face was hollow and green in color. He turned to his inebriated companion at the table. "Yaxley, look who's come to see us!" But Yaxley continued to drink from his tankard and remained indifferent to the wizard's call. As Draco came closer to Brutus, he could feel the cold emanating from Brutus' wet body. Brutus reached out for Draco and gripped Draco's hand in his own. It was, to be sure, the grip of a long dead thing—and it was a sensation Draco wanted to discontinue as quickly as he could.

"Who might you be?"

"I am Brutus Malfoy, or—at least—I _was_ a long time ago." Draco wrinkled his brow as he watched Brutus deliriously pull out a chair for Draco with his shaking hands. "Yaxley, we have a guest. We mustn't be rude!"

"Brutus," chided Ealdwulf, "William and the others want to meet Draco. They are expecting us."

Brutus nodded as he quivered. "Of course." He then smiled and nodded sarcastically with his eyes shut. "That makes sense. He's _my_ progeny, but I'm sure _William_ should be the one to explain it to him." Brutus then turned his face and grit his green, rotted teeth. "It's always Gaunt, isn't it!" He then looked over toward his companion and commanded, "Yaxley, come. We're going to see William." But Yaxley continued to pour the unending alcohol over his head and down his throat as he sat alone in his own filth.

Ealdwulf raised his chin as he scolded the late Malfoy. "I _told_ you he was coming—you should have been prepared."

"For what?" Brutus asked. "The great Draco Malfoy to come rescue us? What's he got that I didn't have? What makes him so special?"

"He's _alive_," Ealdwulf chided. "He's alive, and he's _here_. That's what makes him special."

"Quite right, quite right," Brutus nodded. The freezing wet warlock then turned to Draco and smiled as he shuddered. "Draco, my boy, William has something really special in store for you." Brutus laughed a wheezing, manic laugh. "Come! Let's go see the great warlock, Master Gaunt!" As Draco turned to leave, he could hear Yaxley begin to wail in his solitude. "No, Harold! No tears, please!" Brutus yelled with his hands out.

"He doesn't hear you, Brutus!" Ealdwulf snapped as he grabbed the icy warlock by the back of the collar and drug him out of the cursed establishment. Slowly, Draco, Ealdwulf, and Brutus made their way out of the building and back to their mounts. At first, Brutus seemed to want to follow Draco. But, once Brutus saw the unicorn, he quickly turned and opted to ride with Ealdwulf. Brutus looked to Draco as he mounted the faire creature. "We ride north now to the Naga Marshes."

Draco responded, "How do you know this?"

Ealdwulf turned back to Brutus, who appeared confused. "He doesn't understand yet," Ealdwulf explained, to which Brutus nodded and turned away.

And so it was that Draco, aided by pride and envy, set aside gluttony for the road ahead. The three rode together across Tartarus and the Rauravan Plains until they reached the wetlands of the Naga Marshes. Whether the journey took a week or an hour, Draco could no longer tell. What remained certain was that William Gaunt lay in wait for him at the end of the dark path ahead.

Wiltshire, England

Saturday, the Fourth Night

With one pillow covered in a mass of twisted brunette hair, and the other gripped tightly in her arms, Astoria tossed and turned in the plush Malfoy master bed. Her fine features winced and twisted in the reality of her nightmares as the lightning storm outside cast shocks of light across the bedroom. Astoria was running through hordes of evil souls. In the distance she could see Scorpius, held in the arms of an elderly man dressed in black wizardly robes obscured by a wispy white beard. His round, naked head and sunken grey eyes glinted in the honey–amber hue of the fire surrounding his throne.

Astoria then heard a commotion behind her and thought she heard her husband's voice. She turned to see Draco, held back from Scorpius by several dark, hooded figures who pawed at him with gaunt, grey hands. There were a multitude of them, the largest brandished a double–headed axe in victory over Draco's head. Astoria called for him, and suddenly all in attendance stopped, turned, and stared at her. Her tearful, bleeding husband called out into the darkness beyond his captors, "Scorpius!"

Astoria looked to the dark wizard who held her son and found the distance to his throne too great to traverse by herself. She called to him, but he only laughed as he turned his gaze from her to her child. "Scorpius!" Draco called out again, fighting to stand. Fighting to breathe. Astoria felt hot tears flowing across her face. Enraged by the wizard, she turned and ran toward her beloved.

The multitude who had fallen silent in her presence collapsed to mere wisps of dust as she ran across their number. Their weapons and trinkets repelled from her by a force she did not understand—but felt growing stronger and stronger within her. Those few of the damned whose fear outweighed their hubris knelt in her glory as her footprints lit a path around her. As she ran the impossible distance to Draco, she found the faces of the damned became more and more recognizable. Their portraits hung in her foyer. Malfoy. Black. All knelt before her, as those closest to Draco continued to haunt his mind and still his hand.

She ran further. She ran harder. She ran across tar–black water. She ran across burning fields. As she traversed the great expanse of Perdition itself, a pair of words began to grow on her tongue. A knowledge welled up from within her. It gave her great courage. It gave her speed. She thought of her husband—of collapsing into his warm arms by the lake. She thought of the warmth of his face and the kindness in his eyes when he promised on their wedding day to love her for the rest of his life. She thought of her son. She imagined him as a man—strong of heart and gentle of soul. She could hear Draco calling his name from a distance. She remembered bringing Scorpius home and watching Draco holding him. Now! Now the words raced from her heart to her mouth.

Astoria awoke, jerked up from her pillow, and grabbed her wand from the nightstand before she realized what she was doing. _"Expecto Patronum!"_ she cried out as she flung her wand directly in front of her. She had not uttered those words since school and had never been able to cast a successful Patronus before. There before the lady of Malfoy Manor, a shimmering blue unicorn appeared. Astoria reeled back on the bed, as she saw the unbelievable evidence of her spellcraft. The beast cast a glowing bright light that engulfed the room. He then began to trot through her bookcase and adjoining wall in a circle. He was restless. He could go anywhere. He could protect anyone.

Astoria put down her wand and took in a deep breath. She girded up her strength and commanded the apparition, "Find my husband! Protect him!" Then her voice began to shake, "He is lost in the darkness! Show him the way!" And Astoria watched with tearful eyes as the unicorn shot through the east wall of the master bedroom with great speed to find Draco Malfoy, wherever he might be.

A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing.


	19. The War

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

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CHAPTER 19: The War

_The Battle of Hogwarts_

_Seven Years Ago_

May 2, 1998

"Well, I'm going back for Potter!" Draco declared to his escaping Slytherin housemates. This gave Parkinson and Goyle pause, but Crabbe continued behind Millicent, Daphne, and Tracey. "Crabbe—_wait!_ The Death Eaters are running things now. I… I _need_ to find Potter."

Crabbe stopped running through the passage to Hogsmeade and turned to face Malfoy. He had been losing faith in Malfoy's leadership since Voldemort had taken over Malfoy Manor. "Are you gonna kill him?" Crabbe asked with a crooked smile. Pansy Parkinson stopped and turned to face Malfoy with a raised eyebrow.

Draco's furrowed brow and downcast glance betrayed his ambivalence. "No… No, I'm going to bring him to the Dark Lord."

Pansy chimed in, "That's what _I_ said to do, a few minutes ago when we had the drop on him!"

Draco looked past Crabbe to Pansy. "Do _you_ want to help me capture him?"

"Me?" Pansy asked incredulously.

Daphne's sixteen–year–old sister, Astoria, who had been charging ahead toward Hogsmeade, backtracked to pull Daphne and Goyle with her. She dared not test Pansy. "Come on! We need to get out of here!"

Draco continued, "I'm going back. Once the Death Eaters take Hogwarts, the Dark Lord will want to know who helped him and who failed him."

Astoria jerked at her sister's arm and yelled past Pansy's entourage. "I'm sorry, Draco. I _really_ am. But it would be crazy to go back there. Daphne, come on!"

"He's taken over my house!" Draco yelled.

Daphne looked to Astoria and then back to Draco. Astoria snapped back, "Well, I'm sorry, but it's not _my_ house." This garnered her big sister's full attention and the two began to move forward together. Astoria added as the young Greengrass women left, "And it's not _your_ house either—it's your father's house and his decision to serve You Know Who has brought nothing but pain." Daphne gave her little sister an affirming glance, a knowing smile, and the two continued to Hogsmeade.

Goyle pulled out his wand and walked past Pansy to stand next to Crabbe. By now, several underclassmen from Ravenclaw were making their way through the magical walkway. Crabbe continued, "Yeah, let's go kill Potter and his git friends." He turned to Goyle and goaded, "The three of us can kill one each. Think of it! Think of the reward we'll get from the Dark Lord!"

"We're _not_ going to kill him," Draco shot back. "We're just going to bring him in." Draco then looked past Crabbe and Goyle and looked Pansy in the eyes. "Do you want to come with?"

Pansy had been going over this in her mind since Draco started up about it. Her first instinct had been to hand over Potter. She was no fighter after all! And yet, she was being asked by Draco to help win for Voldemort that which he desired most. She watched Goyle brandish his wand in those pudgy little hands of his and then looked down at her own. She desperately wanted to win back Draco's increasingly distant affections. She was so different now—nearly a woman—and desired him in ways she had not yet fully disclosed to him. But their union would not happen if she didn't survive the day. Better to let Crabbe and Goyle go mucking about with her troubled blond wizard. She would reunite with him after the battle. "No, Draco. You, Crabbe, and Goyle go ahead. I think you're right. I think taking Potter to the Dark Lord is brilliant." She smiled at the ever–worried wizard. "I'll circle back to the Forbidden Forest and deliver the message that he should expect his prize from you."

Draco nodded. Crabbe butted in again, "Malfoy—what does it matter if we bring Potter in dead or alive?"

Draco rolled his eyes and indicated a small escape that the three Slytherins ought to take. "Come on, Crabbe. Goyle."

Pansy watched the three of them make their way back. She waved briefly at Draco but wasn't sure he noticed. He was, understandably, preoccupied with the task at hand. Meanwhile, her self–appointed charge was to make it to the Forbidden Forest—hopefully without any messy encounters. As she considered this, the last of the under-aged Gryffindor students passed her on their way to Hogsmeade. If looks could kill, she'd have died several times in the last few minutes. _No matter,_ she thought. _Soon Gryffindor will be little more than a memory._

—

Several hours later and Pansy was no closer to finding any of the Death Eaters in the Forbidden Forest. She was, again, alone in the dark. Her ears still rang from the explosions over the campus to the west. The murkiness of the forest played against her worst fears. She crouched, eyes wide and mouth gaping, as she attempted to make sense of the shadow upon shadow in the darkness. Was that a claw or a bush? Were those fingers or branches? Was this a stone beneath her or the head of some dreadful, slumbering creature? Every rustling leaf became a vampire bat to her mind, every unsettled twig a bugbear. As Pansy crossed the geography of her nightmares, it became more and more clear to her that she had only herself to praise or blame for her misfortune. Whether she lived or died, it would be by her own hand.

A snap again caught her breath from the right. She spun at it, wand facing outward. She dare not cast a _lumos_ spell, for fear that it might advertise her existence to every breathing creature in the forest. She saw nothing at her right. Nothing but murky shadows. She continued on in this fashion for a few more meters. Another snap to her right. She was being followed. She raised her wand out in the ready position. Then she heard it, the quiet cry for help from within the forest. It carried softly on the wind. She paused to listen further but did not hear it again. The sound had come from in front of her and to the left. She gracelessly stomped past several felled trees and stones until she unceremoniously stumbled to the forest floor.

She fell and rolled several feet among the moss and underbrush. The forest was thinner here, and the moonlight shone along the landscape ahead. Between two huge oak trees lay a great beast Pansy had hoped her whole life to never see in the flesh. There before her, her two eyes met eight huge, polished black orbs flanked by waves of greasy strands of hair. The acromantula's fangs silently undulated as his eight legs plied helplessly at the magical, glittering spherical orb that so perfectly contained him.

The great spider's soulless eyes peered eerily into Pansy who was now frozen in pure horror. She knew all too well that acromantulae took particular delight in feasting on wizard–flesh. With her wand raised toward the creature, she took a moment to fully take in her surroundings. This was no ruse. There were no other acromantulae around. But her horror was again renewed when she heard the beast speak.

"Please, master witch, do not harm me."

Pansy was careful not to betray her fearful confusion at this statement. Was it not the giant spider who had the obvious advantage? Then Pansy saw the warlock. Against the tree thirty meters to her left leaned Augustus Rookwood. From the look of him, a most powerful wizard had stunned him. His entire wand arm was in rigor as he wheezed against the ancient English oak. It took Pansy only a moment longer to see the felled warlocks and unspeakables that littered the forest floor. Several lay dying or dead.

The acromantula spoke quietly to Pansy now as he observed her surprise. "They've been apparating here, back and forth, all night." Pansy winced as she watched the proud warlocks slowly succumbing to their unnatural wounds. The embattled dark wizards seemed to take no notice of Pansy. "They fight," the acromantula continued, "for He Who Must Not Be Named."

Pansy tensed as she engaged the arachnid. "Are we winning?"

The acromantula bristled at the question. "_Your_ kind has taken over the forest. _My_ brothers and sisters fight because_ I_ am…"

"Trapped," Pansy interrupted as she nodded her head.

"Yes," the acromantula said slowly. "Trapped." The giant spider watched Pansy taking all of this in and considered her motives and age. She was no soldier. In fact, it seemed she was surprised to have found this camp at all. "I am Sargog," the spider proclaimed, "alpha–spider and heir of Aragog." Pansy seemed unimpressed until he continued, "And I have a secret to share with you."

Pansy raised an eyebrow. "A secret?" Just then, four more warlocks apparated into the dense forest. Two of them fell immediately to the canopy floor—dead as doornails. The other two were badly injured. One cried out as he carried the other.

"Harry Potter lives! They are holding position…" The wizard stumbled as he called out to his fellow conspirators. "…At the north gate!"

Pansy spun back around to Sargog. "What secret?" Her inquisitive pout turned into a half–smile. _Draco must have already brought Potter to the Dark Lord_, she thought. "You'd say anything to be let free," Pansy sassed the spider. The teasing felt natural to Pansy and put her at ease as another anonymous warlock behind her wheezed through his own blood for a final gasp of air. Besides, _after they kill the spider_, Pansy thought, _I might be rewarded—like Draco had said—for assisting the Dark Lord. I mean, there's no harm in listening—right?_

"I don't dispute that," Sargog retorted. As long as he could engage the neophyte witch, _perhaps_, he thought, _just perhaps _he could talk his way out. So far, Pansy had not looked away. Sargog continued, "Nonetheless, faire witch, there are a great many trinkets and baubles the Dark Lord has collected. Some, he has given to his loyal subjects. Others—well, things get lost in the forest, don't they?"

Pansy watched Rookwood in the distance, slumping now over the tree. His injury was a mortal one. For a moment, she felt some compunction to help him. But, Sargog's story had already seized her interest. "What are you saying?" Pansy asked.

"There is a journal." Sargog deftly indicated with his foreleg. "Just over there, in that satchel." To her right, Pansy saw the satchel on the ground with its contents splayed across another deceased warlock. With furrowed brow, Pansy swiped her raven hair behind her left ear and cautiously tiptoed over to the forgotten pile. There were several books on general spellcraft, three vials, and a pouch of galleons. As she swiftly shoved the coins in her pocket, she eyeballed the bodies for further spoils. One wore a silver chain with a small dragon pendant. Another wore a gold bracelet with strange markings. Both were slipped into Pansy's pocket. "No, no…to the left of the satchel," Sargog corrected. And immediately she saw it. Pansy dropped the arm of the dead man in front of her and reverently approached the beautiful, leather–bound medieval tome. "Yes," Sargog goaded her. Pansy carefully turned the book open and, to her regret, found it to be full of gibberish.

"Is this a joke, then? I can't read…"

"It's _parseltongue_. And a few other languages," Sargog explained.

"Wait!" Pansy's eye caught something on an early page. She read the words silently as she crowded the book ever closer to her chest. _"Ego, Salazar, fortis veneficus…"_ Pansy knew enough Latin from her spellcraft studies to translate this part. She said aloud, "I, Salazar, the most powerful…"

"Shh!" Sargog chided. Pansy crouched as her eyes darted back and forth. The spider was right. _Things _do_ get lost in the forest_. _Looks like this book might be just such an instance!_ As Pansy took more and more time to peruse the rest of the book, seeking anything else she might recognize, Sargog knew his trap was now fully set.

"But the rest? It's all written in this wonky script."

"This," Sargog said quietly and carefully, "is _parseltongue_—written by the hands of Salazar Slytherin _and_ the Dark Lord." Pansy's gaze shot up as the book fumbled out of her grasp and once again into the dirt. The arachnid let out a creepy, low laugh as the witch recollected her newfound treasure. "If you want the gift of parseltongue, you'll have to release me."

"What does the book say?" Pansy asked impatiently. But Sargog just stood there. "I mean," Pansy paused to consider her next words carefully, "what's in it that it might be worth your release?"

All of the sudden, a dark purple–black cloud materialized in front of Pansy as she stood before the trapped spider. An elder witch, clothed in the finest black silk robes, came hobbling out of the smoke. "Nagini is dead! All is lost! Save yourselves!" She reached for two other witches as she screamed, "The Knights of Walpurgis shall live to fight another day!" And they were gone just as quickly as they had arrived.

The alarm of the witch's yell gained the attention of Augustus Rookwood who, having fallen to his knees, called out to Pansy. "What are you doing, girl?"

Pansy called out to Rookwood with her empty wand hand raised, "Sir, I am interrogating our prisoner."

Rookwood looked puzzled; his wand leveled at the two of them. "What? What are you talking about, you silly girl?" As he dropped his wand hand to the forest floor, he commanded, "Come and help me! We must reenter the battle at once." Pansy looked back to the spider, who had now skittered back to the rear of the orb that contained him. "Come here!" Rookwood yelled again. Pansy finally obliged and dashed over to Rookwood. His arm had become as an ashen tree limb after a great fire. His strength was leaving him, and Pansy saw that without help he would most certainly die. Then she beheld the ring on his finger: an obsidian ring of ancient design, in the shape of a snake devouring its own tail. _Too bad_, Pansy thought, _it wasn't on the finger of one of those earlier bodies_.

Pansy could not help but revel for a moment in the destruction of the warlock's arm. It was, in its way, quite exquisite and amazing to see hanging from a living person—as if _dead tree_ and _man_ had co–mingled. Her eyes widened as she explored the fascinating contours of Rookwood's dead limb.

"Well?" Rookwood yelled impatiently. "Heal me! Hasn't Snape taught you _anything_ at that infernal school?"

Pansy considered her options. She thought about sitting there, watching Rookwood die, and then taking the ring. She thought about killing him quietly here and now. Other than the occasional warlock running by, the forest was now mostly empty. Pansy also considered handing the book over to Rookwood. She watched as his eyes widened. He was in a lot of pain. Maybe the best thing was to put him out of his misery? At a second glance, Pansy saw that Rookwood's eyes weren't merely wide but transfixed on something behind her. Just then, she heard a distinct warbling noise coming from the direction of the spider. Pansy spun around in time to see Sargog's orb flashing, dematerializing, and then vanish completely.

"Our Lord is dead!" Rookwood rasped as Sargog leapt toward him with breathtaking speed. Pansy dove to the right, away from Sargog's direct path. Rookwood attempted to fire off a spell at Sargog but not before his legs were contained within the piercing mandibles of the giant spider. Rookwood screamed as he writhed within the creature's great maw. The facts were now spinning together in Pansy's mind. Voldemort had cast the magical orb around Sargog. And the absence of the orb, as well as the growing, unseen clamor within the forest was enough to indicate to Pansy that Lord Voldemort had just been killed.

Pansy's thoughts now centred solely on self–preservation as she witnessed the horror of the great spider devouring the once proud Death Eater. In the distance, she could hear cheers and the thunderous galloping of centaurs. Soon, she would be eaten by the acromantula who casually ignored her as he feasted on Rookwood. Sargog was almost to Rookwood's hands. _The ring!_ For some reason, she became transfixed on the ring. Why shouldn't she have it? She had a wand. She knew spells. In fact, the book she now possessed probably had a great many more spells in it. Silently, she raised her wand toward the spider. _"Avada Ke…"_

With a great blow, Sargog swung his mandibles at Pansy. He knocked her across the ground with the power of three Quidditch beaters. His attack was followed by the same guttural laugh as before.

"_Stupefy!"_ Pansy yelled. _"Stupefy!"_ But the acromantula was surprisingly agile for his size and dodged each shot of Pansy's wand.

"What is this?" the giant spider goaded. "Are you serious?"

"_Stupefy!"_ Pansy again cried. Her spellcraft careened off into the distance.

"Little schoolgirls shouldn't play with wands!" the spider taunted.

"_Stupefy!"_ Pansy again cried. But this just increased the spider's laughter. Pansy began to crawl up the large branch behind her, hoping she might have a modicum of defense from within the tree's limbs.

"Oh, that's cute. The little girl can climb!" Sargog exclaimed, creeping closer.

"_Stupefy!"_ Pansy cried. But the spider had dodged left of the spell. _"Stupefy!" _nothing. _"Stupefy!" _missed. The spider was having fun with her.

"Who do you think you are?" Sargog asked, before swinging his pincers high at Pansy.

Pansy realized her moment and knew what it would cost her. She let herself drop four meters to the ground. She did her best to roll as she landed in the canopy below. She raised her wand at the spider's great belly, having only an instant to react. _"Crucio!"_

Sargog twisted and convulsed, his great limbs painfully constricting toward his body. Holding her wand out to drive as much agony into the arachnid as possible, Pansy crawled over to the bloody bits of limb belonging to the former Augustus Rookwood. There, she found the Ring of Urobara and lifted it from its crimson puddle. She noticed, as her wand dipped and swung slightly, the giant spider's scream changed its pitch. She had some fun with that for a few moments, until she started to recognize the beginning effects of apparation. She was leaving the forest, no doubt thanks to the ring. She heard a slight rustling in the trees above her and discovered a multitude of spiders gathering. She knew now she would be gone in moments—either by the power of the ring or the bloodthirst of the acromantulae.

With the resigned feeling that it would fit either occasion, she squeezed the spider impossibly together and then forced his eight limbs to rip from him in one single motion. "Behold, Sargog!" Pansy called out with wand extended proudly. And as the purple–black began to envelope her, she declared, "_I _am Pansy Parkinson!"

— —

_I am Pansy Parkinson._ For months she scribbled that in her newfound journal. From those random scribbles and doodles, her final declaration in the Forbidden Forest of Hogwarts would become an anagram. That anagram became her nom de guerre—the pseudonym she would adopt to flee Azkaban and, perhaps, carve out her own niche in the annals of Dark Wizardry.

_I AM PANSY PARKINSON._

_SORAN APPIAN MINSKY._

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing.


	20. An Ocean of Wisdom

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

* * *

CHAPTER 20: An Ocean of Wisdom

The Island of Souda, off the Coast of Crete

Sunday, the Fifth Day

Minerva McGonagall stood along the sandy cliff and watched in pure amazement as the immortal creature before her summoned powers she had never before seen. The Woman sat in a meditative pose, with her back to McGonagall, facing the azure sea to the northwest of the island. Her outstretched arms channeled a dance of wind and golden light across the waves, as her hair and tattered clothes rustled gently with each successive wave of energy. As the Woman cried out for several minutes into the ocean's distance, McGonagall could make out some of the Greek. She was requesting help from _the Elders_. Across the wind, the Woman spoke of ages past. She offered her thanks and praise. She called out to the sea in metaphysical analogies that sounded more like mysticism to McGonagall than proper wizardry.

Then a sight most sublime—_there!_ To the west, McGonagall witnessed a whale breaching the surface of the water. With his majestic back arched and fins parted slightly from his body, he rose several meters out of the water and passed through the golden wave of light that now emanated across untold miles of ocean. The golden–green light flashed around the cetacean and trailed back to the Woman who visibly flinched when it passed through her. "Ketos!" the Woman cried out in a low, sonorous voice. "Thank you!" she declared, her witchly hands spread widely at her sides. Another four bolts of light surged her way. Storm clouds began to collect the errant moisture produced by the dynamic energy surging across the water.

Just then, a powerful dance of white light traveled from beyond the horizon to instantly reach the Woman. Then another. And another. Lightning now arced across the cacophonic sea. The second lightning flash seemed to linger for three or four seconds when it hit the Woman's energy field. Threads and points of golden light encircled the Woman by the hundreds. McGonagall could now see the Woman's fingers adjusting their position very delicately, as if she were manipulating a fine instrument. The Woman continued to speak in an unnaturally low register against the lightning and waves of light. In the distance, a pair of dolphins lunged completely out of the water and into the spectral field. They repeated this several times—each time, the Woman chanted something McGonagall did not recognize.

Then the Woman said something McGonagall did understand. _Malfoy_. It sent chills down McGonagall's spine. Draco Malfoy was a malcontent from a family of the worst kind of opportunists, usurpers, and turn–coats. McGonagall believed that, at Hogwarts, every child deserved his own chance to prove himself. But they weren't in Hogwarts anymore. And Mr. Malfoy was no longer a child.

Then, just as suddenly as it had all started, the din of noise and water spray and lightning subsided into a gentle roll of distant thunder. The water calmed, and the Woman turned silently in McGonagall's direction. Her eyes were glowing brightly in the same golden hue as the spectral field that had dissipated mere moments ago. She seemed satiated, as if a great thirst had been filled up within her. She looked calmly at McGonagall and said matter–of–factly, "I must speak with Draco."

"What did you see?" McGonagall asked impertinently. Ever since the water nixies had brought McGonagall to the island, she had been of two minds about the whole thing. On the one hand, she was flattered to be summoned by such a mage as the Woman. On the other hand, keeping her presence on the island a secret concerned her very deeply.

Reassuringly, the Woman reported her findings to McGonagall without hesitation. "There is a spectral unicorn on its way. I believe it's a patronus. That could complicate things for us."

McGonagall paused, then asked, "How will that affect Mr. Malfoy's passage down into…?"

"I cannot destroy, contain, nor can I permanently ban a patronus—especially a powerful patronus—from the island." The Woman hesitated. "What I can do is channel the patronus with sympathetic magic."

"How will you do this?"

The Woman continued, "When I probed Draco's mind during that first night, I collected all of his memories—remember? Well, he has a very vivid memory of a slain unicorn. If you will agree to assist me in channeling this unicorn patronus, I will convince Draco that he will meet the slain unicorn from his youth in the Underworld."

McGonagall's nose twitched. "Why not just tell him the truth?"

The Woman's eyebrow rose slightly. "Because _I_ need to know if Draco can be trusted. I am giving him nothing less than a nuclear weapon. The Hermetic Scythe _can_ _kill anything_. It was forged in the elder days and can only be wielded by one such as Draco."

"What do you mean, _one such as Draco_? Do you mean Draco is evil?"

The Woman revealed a curt smile that belied the fondness that had grown in her for her misanthropic pupil. "No. Draco is not evil. But he has been chosen by evil for a goal they've been trying to work out since—well, since the very beginning." The Woman approached McGonagall and took her by the arm. The two then began to walk arm–in–arm away from the shore as the Woman continued to speak. "Draco bears the dark mark. A vestige of a power whose very flesh was resurrected in darkness."

"Voldemort," McGonagall spoke under her breath.

"Indeed. That mark, and the gene pool of blood which flows beneath it, are enough to grant Draco an audience below. But it will not be enough for him wield the scythe."

McGonagall nodded her head, "They have to _give_ him the scythe, don't they?"

The Woman squeezed McGonagall's arm and closed her eyes. "Yes." The Woman took in a deep breath. "It is an instrument of darkness. Even I cannot wield it."

McGonagall continued, "So, Draco needs their permission?"

The Woman's eyes opened as her head turned toward McGonagall. "Permission? Well, I would use the word _blessing_—but yes. To one who has harrowed the journey below, the scythe is transformed from a heavy, sharp instrument to an effortlessly light weapon capable of near limitless destruction."

"And you're giving this weapon of limitless destruction to the son of Lucius Malfoy?"

"No," the Woman said with a smile. "I'm preparing the way for the father of Scorpius Malfoy."

McGonagall pondered on this for a moment. She had not seen Mr. Malfoy since the Battle of Hogwarts_. What a tragedy to befall such a noble institution! So many cherished friends and pupils killed!_ But McGonagall was then struck by a realization. She remembered Narcissa Malfoy's ruse—the very surprise that insured Harry's safe return from the Forbidden Forest. When all was said and done, it had been revealed that Narcissa had declared Harry dead—and surely put herself in grave danger in doing so—for the love of her own son. Harry had revealed as much in his interviews with the _Daily Prophet_. McGonagall had to admit to herself that there was love in the Malfoy family. How much more brightly did that small flame now shine at Malfoy Manor? McGonagall wanted to believe in Draco's redemption and could see now more clearly the necessity of testing the new head of the Malfoy family.

The Woman now steered McGonagall back toward the bungalow. "You'll be able to see everything from the ridge. I need to go back to the cave and prepare Draco for his journey. Of course, when we surface, he mustn't see you."

"I understand," McGonagall responded.

"I'll bring him to the water's edge, and it'll happen over there, facing the eastern sea."

McGonagall rubbed her face above her left eye and asked with labored breath, "And you're sure it can be no one else?"

"It must be Draco."

"Can I not go with him?" McGonagall interrupted. As soon as she said it, she looked away. McGonagall did not mean to add to an already tense situation with her own impertinence and immediately regretted her question.

The Woman's pursed lips morphed into a reassuring smile. McGonagall was a mother–figure for Draco, and her latent care for the young man, as well as her natural protective demeanor, struck a chord with the Woman. "Draco must do this alone. His choices, his reality in the Underworld—it must all be real."

McGonagall smiled as she gazed upon the serenity of ocean before her—an ocean that would soon eat her former pupil alive. "So, we're to tell him a 'noble lie' then?"

The Woman smiled, "Minerva! You've read the Classics!"

McGonagall turned to the Woman now and smiled in a more teasing way. "My dear, don't you know that every schoolgirl in Scotland has read the Classics! But, I wonder, oh 'Mistress of the Secret Island,' if you've read the _Scottish_ Enlightenment thinkers?" Both women gave each other a quick sideways glance and laughed. McGonagall was relieved for that laugh. _Why was it that it seemed her role in this life was ever to send promising young men to their utter annihilation?_

—

Several hours later and McGonagall once again found herself in the enviable though unsettling position of watching the Woman tap into realities most wizards would not dare disturb. McGonagall could see Draco from her great distance. He was again clad in his ancestral black cloak. _He truly does look like his father Lucius now_, she thought. The Woman had conveyed to McGonagall some of the terror Draco felt at the hands of the Banshee. It did not sit well with McGonagall that the Woman had lied to her beloved banshee of Brodgar—telling them that McGonagall needed Draco to save her from the Underworld. But, she understood the Woman's reasoning. Draco was their only hope against the Gorgon_._ McGonagall herself had fought the Gorgon and lost. Bringing more wizards into the fight risked the lives of Neville, Harry, and countless others. _No. It has to be Draco, _McGonagall thought._ The Gorgon's death requires the scythe, and the scythe requires Draco._

McGonagall thought about her conversations with the Woman over the last couple of days and reflected now on her final, ominous question. McGonagall had asked, _What if Draco goes to the Underworld and decides, like his father, to side with evil?_ The Woman's response had been two–fold. If Draco did not yet have the scythe, she would, at the very least, obliviate his memories. If, however, he were already within reach of the scythe, she would have no choice but to destroy him. McGonagall considered this as she watched the Woman in her young, nubile form drag a goat to the water's edge. She again called on powers beyond the ken of proper wizardry and, with the price of the goat's blood now sprayed across herself and the beach, a doorway was opened to the Underworld.

The Woman had explained bits and pieces of the procedure to McGonagall. While the Woman possessed the power to let things _into_ the Underworld, she did not have the power to let anything _back out_—that power resided, at least in Draco's case, with the banshee of his native Britain. The Woman could not travel beyond the Veil. She, like the banshee, could only travel _along_ the Veil between life and death. Such was the rare gift of the Veilwalkers. McGonagall thought about this as she watched a terrified Malfoy walking to the water's edge, past the macabre splatter of blood, toward the unnatural hole in the beach. Electric arcs and luminescent waves of color churned the seawater through which Draco now trudged. _What is going through his mind?_ McGonagall wondered. His fear was palpable. McGonagall's heart went out to him as she watched the heir of the now–shamed Malfoy name approach the edge of oblivion. From her distance, she could make out that Draco was putting on the Ring of Urobara. He spoke no words. He looked up, directly in McGonagall's direction but did not seem to see her. He then turned and brought his hands to his chest. McGonagall held her breath for fear that she might scream out to the lad. His body then went completely limp as it fell directly toward the watery vortex.

McGonagall screamed out, unable to contain her fear any longer. The Woman, again in her youthful appearance, stood on the beach and silently watched as the gate of water, energy, and light all collapsed with Draco's fall as if a great hand had struck the water. McGonagall found herself running down the beach, past the Woman, toward the former gateway.

"Stand back!" yelled the Woman at McGonagall. But the Scottish witch paid her ancient Greek host no mind.

"Draco!" McGonagall cried out.

"Minerva! Get out of the way!" the Woman shouted again. McGonagall heard a distant roiling sound, followed by the incantation of an Etruscan spell she did not recognize. McGonagall turned just in time to see the Woman casting at her.

"_Protego!_" McGonagall countered. It worked—which seemed to surprise both women. Somewhat shocked, McGonagall gave the Woman a warning glance before turning back to the shoreline. "Oh my!" McGonagall shrieked as her eyes now attested to her worst fears. McGonagall could now make out a body floating face–down in the water.

"Minerva!" the Woman yelled. "Minerva, it's on its way!" McGonagall cast her gaze upward to the sea's horizon. From the west, she could see something like a bright, blue–white comet racing across the ocean's sunset distance. It was coming directly toward them. McGonagall instinctively took two steps back, but she miscalculated. A ship would've taken several minutes to traverse that distance, but the patronus shot across it in mere moments. McGonagall had time only to instinctively cross her arms defensively in front of her gaze. The force of the patronus, and the water that moved with it, knocked the grimalkin up in the air, back toward the beach. Simultaneously, the Woman recast her protection spells at McGonagall and deftly secured for her a soft, sandy landing. As expertly timed as the Woman's spellcraft had been, all eyes lingered on Draco. For as McGonagall had taken her great leap away, the unicorn patronus plunged with tremendous speed directly toward Draco and then disappeared.

McGonagall then turned to the Woman with furrowed brow and turned back toward Draco's floating body. She stood up and sloshed through the water as fast as her black cloak would allow her to move. "Have you killed him?" McGonagall asked, somewhat hysterically.

The Woman responded in an even tone, "Draco is not dead. Nothing dead can come back." McGonagall stood nearly waist–deep in the water, wide–eyed with dread. The Woman reasoned, "Check his pulse." McGonagall slowly reached out to Draco's arm. As she did so, she noticed his mouth wide–open under the water's surface.

McGonagall called out to the Woman, "He can't breathe!"

"Never mind that, Minerva. Does he have a heartbeat?"

McGonagall pulled at his sleeve and saw the dark mark emblazoned on his arm. She pursed her lips and felt of his wrist. "I don't feel anything…" McGonagall called out. Her hands slightly shook in the darkening saltwater. Then, McGonagall gasped. "Wait!" She closed her eyes in relief. "It's weak, but it's there. His heart is beating."

"I know," the Woman said. "I am making sure of it."

McGonagall looked back at her. "What is this? I thought he was going to the Underworld?"

"He has," the Woman responded as she slowly approached McGonagall. "He's there right now."

McGonagall wasn't in the mood for games or wordplay. "He's right bloody _here_—apparently drowning!" She paused and focused her reasoning as the Woman confidently approached her at the water's edge. "So… What? Are you going to tell me that it's all happening inside his head?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking, yes," the Woman said.

McGonagall nodded angrily, "Oh, I see." Then a thought occurred to her. "So, why lie to the banshee about needing to save me? If this is all just in his head?"

The Woman stood waiting on the beach. She was in her full–adult visage again—complete with her favorite sundress. "Minerva, this _is_ real. This is _really_ happening for Draco. I don't personally understand how it works. I have the power to open a door that allows others to pass through to a reality I cannot visit."

"Then how do you know he's there?" McGonagall asked.

"We can see his progress in the Underworld through the mirror at my bungalow."

McGonagall countered, "You mean, we can see what he is imagining in his oxygen–deprived brain?"

"If that's how you need to understand it." The Woman smiled as she reached out for McGonagall's hand to help her out of the water.

"So, he's dreaming?" McGonagall asked as she took the Woman's hand.

The Woman raised her eyebrow, "Are you so sure that you are not?"

— —

As night fell over the coastline, the two mages walked together back to the bungalow. McGonagall had been reticent to leave Draco's side, but the Woman was insistent that aid necessary to his fight lay at the mirror. As they turned to walk up the hill, McGonagall stole a glance back at the coast. Draco's body had been laid in the sand by the receding tide. At her distance, McGonagall could now barely make out the shadowy outline of his body along the moonlit beach.

"Hermione Granger is pregnant," the Woman said candidly. McGonagall spun around and stared at the Woman in disbelief. The Woman continued, "She does not yet know."

Several obvious queries flooded McGonagall's mind—not the least of which was _how did the Woman know Ms. Granger_—until a question escaped McGonagall's lips. "How do you know this?"

The Woman curtly nodded, in a sign to McGonagall that, while her question was obvious, she could have done far worse. "Anything known among werewolves can't be a secret for long. According to the olfactory senses of at least five different werewolves, Hermione is currently with child."

"Werewolves? But," McGonagall sputtered. "But what does Ms. Granger have to do with any of this?"

By this time, the two reached the crest of the hill and entered the side footpath of the ultra–modern bungalow. The building struck McGonagall as bearing a design from the 1960s or 70s. To the side, McGonagall saw the Woman's thatch–roofed rear garden and patio area. Behind the table set for two was a large, ornate mirror. The Woman walked over to the mirror and placed her right hand along its antique, hand–crafted edge before turning back to McGonagall. She looked preoccupied and responded succinctly, "Hermione will lead Draco to the Gorgon." And with that, the Woman waved her hand in front of the mirror, and what was once a murky reflection to McGonagall now became an image of Draco Malfoy riding a shimmering unicorn through a smoke–filled, ashen landscape. Before him rode a night–mare, upon which sat an awful looking, soot–covered barbarian, and behind him a blond man who looked to be a possible relation to Draco.

McGonagall was dumbfounded. "Where… Where are they going?"

"I have no idea," the Woman admitted. The Woman then raised her hands to her chest, with her palms turned inward. McGonagall did not notice the metamorphosis take place, but nonetheless realized a moment later that the Woman now bore the appearance of an aged sorceress wearing a fine white cloak. Behind the Woman, the mirror also changed to reveal a large, dark room. "Now," the Woman intoned with a throaty, aged voice that reflected the gravitas of her millennia of experiences and wisdom, "You must stay silent while I travel across the Veil." McGonagall looked confused but open to the Woman's instructions. "Whatever is seen by one is known by all across the Veil. If you were to be seen in the mirror, then the banshee would rescind their offer to allow Draco's return." McGonagall took a step back and nodded her head. The Woman gave her a knowing smile, as her aged eyes tensed at the weight of her crow's feet. "No matter what you hear, Minerva, I need you to stay silent."

McGonagall found the patio seat behind her and eased into it. "I understand." After a moment she raised her hand and quietly added, "Let's do everything we can for Draco."

The Woman nodded curtly and allowed her smile to dissipate before approaching the mirror and raising her hands. She whispered something that McGonagall could only guess as to its meaning.

— — —

Arthur Weasley stood silently in the Department of Mysteries. He still did not understand the miracle of the Woman's appearance in the Veil just hours ago. Yet she had beckoned to him and had revealed the necessary steps to produce the potion his son so desperately needed. Within the hour, Ron was conscious but the spell's residual effects still limited his range of motion. And so, mere hours after her secret communication with him, Arthur had gone home, administered the expert potion, carried his son to his flying Mini Cooper, and, in the dead of night, driven him to the Department of Mysteries. There, before the Veil, the two men waited—Ron in his wheelchair, and Arthur behind him.

With an undulating whirl of necromantic magic, the bits of tattered cloth around the Veil began to roll around the room in a fresh fit of breeze. Through the Veil, Arthur could now see the same image of an aged sorceress, clad in regal white finery. "Thank you," a sincerely grateful Arthur called out to the Woman, his outstretched hands now faced the seated young man before him. "You saved my son's life."

"Your gratitude is appreciated, Arthur, but now it is you—or, more specifically, your son, Ronald—who is in a position to assist me."

Arthur Weasley looked down now to his son's mane of wild red hair. He had mourned his son Fred's death only seven short years ago and had feared that Ron would soon follow his brother into the next life. Confident in the knowledge now that Ron would live, Arthur's overbearing tendency to protect his remaining children now governed him in both thought and action. His hands came to rest on Ron's shoulders as he looked up to his ethereal benefactor. "What is it you believe my son can do for you?"

"I need a vial of his blood," the Woman said through the Veil.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing.


	21. The Knights of Walpurgis

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

* * *

CHAPTER 21: The Knights of Walpurgis

Geneva, Switzerland

_A Year Following the Battle of Hogwarts_

August 11, 1999

"We have always stood apart from the great unwashed masses." Richard Lestrange, now 73 years old, was the closest thing the Knights had to royalty. Taking a long drag from his cigar, the elder warlock set his brandy glass on the table next to the fireplace and then placed his cold, thin hand against the alabaster mantle at the head of the room. He blew the tobacco smoke out with an exhausted breath, courteously facing away from the mantle, only to return his gaze to the portrait that lovingly hung above him. With an exaggerated hiss, the warlock claimed witness to the oil painting before them all, "Salazar Slytherin." His tone turned from one of momentary pride to one of contempt. "Now, there was a warlock!" His mouth squeezed into an almost imperceptible smile and then drooped again as he turned to face the rest of the den. "But alas," Lestrange continued, "thou knowest it is common—all that live must die, passing through nature to eternity."

"Oh, dear God, Lestrange. Not more Shakespeare." Victoria, the owner of the house, sat with perfect poise as she stroked the cat that lazily covered her lap. Her short–cropped white hair stood in bold contrast with her darkly colored, serpentine robes. The mansion and its twenty-four house elves had been in her pureblood family for generations, the entire estate of which was rumored to pass to Persephone, her cat, when she died.

Lestrange began to chide his distant cousin. "Victoria, there simply are words that ought to be said before…"

Selwyn interrupted, "Master Lestrange! Please, sir. We're all quite tired. We… we all know where this is going. We know how you feel!"

"Do you?" Lestrange set his cigar on the end table and began briskly walking in Selwyn's direction. He placed his hands on his hips as he looked with a downcast gaze into Selwyn's eyes. "Do not think me weak in my elder days." Selwyn looked to his left and then his right in a nervous twitch as Lestrange bent over and pointed his finger in the younger wizard's face. "I have no need for a wand to smite the likes of a stunted toad in cheap robes."

"Sir, I meant no disrespe…"

"Selwyn!" Lestrange mocked as he stood upright. "Let us all pay heed to Selwyn, the Great Owl Killer!" A few in the crowd giggled as Lestrange raised his arms and continued his condescending tone. "Did you…attack…a teenager? From the safety of a swarm of Death Eaters that included both of my sons? And manage nothing more than to kill _his owl_?" Lestrange then looked down again to Selwyn with raised eyebrow. "Are those the words they will speak over your body after I end you for your insolent interruption?"

After a long, awkward silence among the three dozen or so wizards in the den, Victoria spoke up again. "Richard," she muttered as she rolled her eyes, "leave the poor owl killer alone." Laughter erupted in the room, especially among those who had aligned with Lestrange over the last year.

Lestrange nodded his head as he backed away. He was more sensitive these days to his reputation. He wanted to be remembered well and to do the Lestrange family proud. He imagined his ancestors setting a banquet for him in the world to come, thankful for his loyalty and service. He walked back up to the front of the room and picked up his cigar after brushing some lint off his grey waistcoat.

"With all the respect due a wizard such as Selwyn—you don't know how I feel." He took in a long breath and continued, "I have lost much over the last year. My daughter–in–law, Bellatrix, was killed following a half–breed fool to his utter destruction."

A voice in the crowd interrupted, "Lord Voldemort was brave and loyal to Slytherin!"

"_Lord? Lord_ Voldemort? Hardly! Tom Riddle and I were schoolmates. He knew nothing of loyalty or bravery. He was a half–breed outcast who served nothing higher than himself. And his short–sighted focus on that damned Gryffindor kid led to our near total destruction!" Lestrange exhaled and looked now to his arthritic hands. "Change, my friends, does not happen overnight at the hands of armed thugs. Permanent, real change occurs slowly, from within the system. Those devoted to Slytherin's ideals have persevered for a thousand years because we uniquely understand the way of history." The crowd grew silent. There had been whispers about Richard Lestrange's vision for the Knights, but now, at this meeting, all would be laid bare. "I have a son yet in Britain. I would like to see him again. In short, I have dispatched a courier to the British Ministry to open negotiations for the terms of our peaceful return."

Murmurs in the crowd began to form, which Lestrange spoke over. He gestured now to the enclave of German and Scandinavian wizards toward the back. "While I wish to extend my gratitude to the good and noble warlocks from Durmstrang, I'm afraid that this is an internal matter." Lestrange began to smile but could sense that he was losing the sway of the crowd. "After all, we are Englishmen!"

"Not all of us!" a woman's voice cried out from the crowd. "I am Maria de las Serpientes. I was born to a noble family, much like yours, in Spain. My parents were raised with the old traditions but ignored them." Maria then looked over to her German peers and smiled. "It was not until the good people of Durmstrang reached out to me and showed me the truth that I achieved my true potential."

"I'm very happy for you," Lestrange dryly responded.

"You're not hearing me, old man! I had to cross borders to see the truth! The fate of proper, pureblood wizardry is not an English matter. It is a global matter!" The crowd began to nod and echo Maria's concerns. Maria then began to address the crowd. "The enemy wants us to thin our bloodlines and crawl behind Muggles and half–breeds!" What color was left in the elder warlock's face now faded from Lestrange. He looked over to Victoria whose gaze was fixed on Persephone. Selwyn stood from his seat and began to walk back toward Maria. Lestrange's eyes widened and then tensed as he gazed with disdain at the former Death Eater.

Victoria looked up and admonished Selwyn over the growing roar of the crowd. "Selwyn! Where are you going?"

Just then, a young raven–haired witch stood up in the crowd. At least half of the witches and wizards stared in reverent silence at the unassuming witch as she rose from the multitude. She was adorned in simple black robes. She carried a visage unlike the other younger, jilted and shattered Knights of Walpurgis. She had an air of certitude and focus. Lestrange was puzzled by her appearance, though not yet alarmed.

"Selwyn is with us now," the raven–haired witch proclaimed.

Victoria met eyes with her and seemed quite taken by her charisma. It had been a long time since a youth had shown any boldness among the Knights; mostly they seemed a dim group of followers. But aside from her boldness, she was also quite fetching. Victoria smiled, "Who is this little darling?"

"Soran Appian Minsky." Her nom de guerre had been known to only a few. Now was the moment she would be revealed to the entire remnant. Soran did not turn to face Victoria's condescending comment; she would stand to be objectified by no one. Especially not tonight.

Lestrange countered as Selwyn sat next to Soran. "Minsky… your accent, though quite pedestrian, certainly _sounds_ British… But that name... It sounds…" He looked to Victoria coyly, "Russian, maybe?"

"We demand three things," Soran responded.

Lestrange continued to smile. He was honestly amused. He held up three fingers.

"That's right. Faith, devotion, and duty."

Lestrange chuckled as he shook his head. "Sure, all fine virtues."

Victoria chimed in, still smiling, "The Knights have ever stood by each of those."

"Wrong!" Maria snapped. "You have ceased in your devotion to the pure."

"THE PURE," about half the crowd chanted.

Lestrange looked across the crowd, utterly baffled. He then looked up to the girl. "Minsky, is it?"

"You may call me Soran."

"Minsky, I don't know what this is, but I can assure you…"

Soran interrupted, "I think you know exactly what this is. You say you are tired; we say you are weak. You would have us crawl back to Britain, begging for scraps from the Minister's table." Just then, a snake could be seen slithering out of Soran's robes and across her shoulder blades. Its head came to rest along her opposite shoulder. "The courier who carried your cowardly message is dead. You are not fit to lead us." Lestrange began to speak but Soran spoke over him. "Silence the traitor!"

"_Silencio!"_ cried out from five different wizards. The room was filled with a momentary light that coalesced at Richard Lestrange. Victoria gasped just as Persephone jumped from her lap and scurried down the hall.

"Are you mad?" Victoria cried out as she stood, her right hand resting delicately at her chest.

"Faith!" Soran cried out.

"IN THE CYCLE OF PURITY," the back half of the room chanted.

Soran responded, "When the Muggles brought forth the Modern Age, Wizard–kind shrunk back in silence. But Muggle–kind will soon fall and with it—the rise of Wizard!" Soran then looked to an acolyte standing to her left and gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

"_Petrificus Totalus!"_ the hulking Durmstrang acolyte thundered. Lestrange fell with a loud _thud_, which Soran talked over.

"Devotion!" Soran called.

"TO THE CALLING," the crowd chanted.

Soran continued defiantly in the direction of Victoria, whose eyes were welling up with tears. "Mudbloods, the Dragon Queen welcomes you but expects your continued service to Wizard–kind, which begins with your sterilization. For purebloods, your birthright and proliferation is not only encouraged but expected as you take your place as masters of this world."

Victoria screamed out, "She will be the death of us all!" But then covered her mouth as Soran raised a finger at her.

"Duty!" Soran finally called out.

"TO THE DRAGON," the believers chanted.

Soran smiled. "Service to the Dragon Queen will bring forth the New Day." She then quietly walked to the front of the den, as everyone watched in silent amazement. Soran took her time studying the details of the den. She approached Richard Lestrange and, taking the glass of brandy in her hand, she raised it up as she placed her left boot on Lestrange's chest. "To the New Day: the day in which every pureblood wizard will be master of ten thousand muggles." She then lowered the brandy and took a drink of it. Victoria was still standing in place, quivering at the sight she only moments ago found so endearing.

Soran turned to Victoria. "I ask for nothing. But the Dragon Queen expects your obedience." The crowd was entranced. Soran looked the elder witch up and down. "Take off your clothes." Victoria lowered her hands and looked horrified. Soran continued, "As a sign of your humility, you must bare yourself." Victoria looked down and then back at Soran. She looked up at the crowd. A few faces turned, but most stared back at her with sharp focus. She turned away from the crowd, slowly detached the hasps that held her delicate robe together, and let it fall to the floor, revealing her floor–length silk chemise. "Now. Turn to face the Acolytes." Victoria gritted her teeth and turned to the crowd. Soran then addressed them, "What I do and say is not for me, but for all." Victoria lowered her gaze. Some of the women in the crowd began to look distressed. However, their distress soon turned to surprise as they witnessed Soran unhasping her own plain black robe.

The snake at her shoulders slithered through the front opening of her robe and coiled around her midriff. She then let her robe drop to the floor, revealing the flesh above and below the coiled snake. The confidence Soran exhibited before the crowd of misfit witches and wizards filled them with a combination of both astonishment and fear. "The Dragon Queen," Soran instructed, "will ask nothing of you that she would not expect of me." Several in the crowd became unnerved by Soran's nakedness, but she was steadfast. She snapped at a man near the front who covered his eyes. "Look at me, coward!" Soran demanded. She stood there for nearly a minute, until her point had sunk into the crowd. _She was without fear or shame_. Then, to the surprise of many, she gathered her black robe and covered Victoria with it. Victoria trembled as Soran touched her. "The Dragon Queen is merciful," Soran announced, "to those who obey her." And with that, Soran stooped down to gather Victoria's fine, serpentine robe from the floor and clothed herself with it. Soon after, a collective exhale flowed out of the crowd.

"Soran, what is the will of the Dragon Queen?" Maria confidently asked from the rear of the den. Soran reached over and took the brandy glass from the table and swirled the contents within. Victoria's former robes fit Soran well and added to her regal appearance.

"Those who wish to follow the Dragon, may meet me outside. Those loyal to Richard Lestrange can stay in this house and die with him. You have three minutes to decide."

The crowd parted as Soran, holding Victoria's hand behind her exited the room. Selwyn leered at a humbled Victoria as they passed by. Soran saw this and paused. "She is not yours." Selwyn averted his gaze as Soran leaned toward him. "If you ever look at this woman like that again, I will kill you in a manner too horrifying to describe." Selwyn swallowed as Victoria looked up to Soran with a puzzled look. "Come, Acolytes," Soran commanded.

Maria and the Durmstrang enclave followed closely behind Soran as she exited the mansion. But the wizards closer to the front of the den erupted in argument. Some walked away with their hands thrown up in the air. Others laughed, in shock at seeing so many once–loyal wizards depart. Two approached Richard Lestrange and began to administer curatives. In all, only six wizards remained. All but Richard Lestrange had served in the Second Wizarding War.

"Who in the hell is Soran Minsky?" Monty asked.

"Who is the Dragon Queen?" Hamish added. "And what was with all that chanting?"

For the next few moments, those who remained continued to debate amongst themselves. Richard Lestrange slowly began to rise from the floor and was comforted to see that he was in the company of solid English wizards. "Where is Victoria?" Lestrange asked.

"Soran took her," one of them explained.

Lestrange nodded and took the wizard's hand. "Thank you, Rabastan." Lestrange had a resigned look on his face as he addressed the wizards before him. "Well, we're done here in Geneva. Come, lads. I've a portkey in my room that will take us to safety. This Soran is exactly why a measured reduction and appeasement…"

But Lestrange couldn't finish. There was a massive noise outside. It sounded as if a Muggle automobile had struck a tree. All heads turned to the direction of the sound. Those who had wands thrust them instinctively toward the noise. "Come on!" Lestrange countered as he patted Rabastan on the arm. Again, the boom came. Then again. Something was banging on the outside of the house. _Boom_. Hamish turned to Monty. _Boom._ Both turned to Lestrange. _Boom._ Lestrange pointed in the direction of the sound. "Lads, take point near the house entrance."

The warlocks took defensive positions, just as a whining, splitting noise echoed from the foyer. The front door was bowing inward. Rabastan Lestrange took a step back and stumbled as he did so. His father looked down at him and barked, "Dammit, man! Get to your feet!" And then the door came flying through the foyer. Several spells were hurled toward the gaping hole before the beast revealed herself.

The doorposts were slightly too narrow for the Gorgon to make her entrance so she tore the right one out of the wall. Monty fired several spells at her thick green skin, but none had the slightest effect. Hamish lost his nerve and fell to his knees, screaming as the Gorgon approached him. She swiped at him with her massive claw, snapping him nearly in two. Monty cast defensive spells around himself, which the Gorgon walked through with ease. Lestrange watched in horror as Monty's body was hurled into his son Rabastan like a rag doll. Lestrange cowered in fear as the Gorgon tore the remaining wizards limb from limb. The once decadent den was now covered in blood from one side to the other. It took only moments for the Gorgon to dispatch the proud Englishmen. Defeated, Lestrange gathered his courage and pondered how best to arrive in the hall of his fathers. He stood defiantly and called to the Gorgon. The Gorgon obliged and turned to face him. The elder wizard raised his hands and issued from them waves of fire and wind.

His boldness intrigued her. These past few months, her newfound freedom had made every breath a joy and every task a thrilling pleasure. Once neglected and forgotten, the Gorgon had lost track of the sunless centuries she had spent in her underground prison. Soran changed all of that. The Gorgon was grateful for her freedom and served her new master with singular purpose. She considered all of this, as she observed the pathetic torrent of magical power wash over her snakely flesh. In tribute to his bravery, the Gorgon decided she would end the warlock quickly.

Lestrange did not avert his gaze as the house began to crumble and collapse from the volcanic force of fire and energy engulfing it. With eyes wide open, he asked for his ancestors to welcome him to their table. A moment later, a bone was swung across his view, and he was no more.

Outside the enormous funeral pyre, Soran and her acolytes stood gazing in silence at the violent end of Richard Lestrange. "Remember this day," Soran said over the roar of the flames. "Richard Lestrange gave his life for what he believed in. There is nobility in that." Maria startled as she watched the Gorgon leap out of the collapsing domicile. It was unnerving to see such an enormous creature move with such speed. The Gorgon approached Soran and kneeled. When this happened, everyone else kneeled before her as well. An unusual calm fell across the landscape. There was no sound for several minutes, save for Victoria's weeping and the roar of the fire consuming her house.

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A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing.


	22. The Ambush

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. The character "Cassidy" is the intellectual property of . No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

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CHAPTER 22: The Ambush

Just outside of Nürnberg, Germany

The Seventh Evening

At two in the morning, the black Range Rover sped gracefully across the inky darkness of the E51 autobahn. Cassidy had the wheel, with Hermione riding shotgun. In the backseat, Piotr sat next to a bound-up Maria, his 9-mil pistol facing the turncoat witch as he scanned his wideband radio. After leaving Poland the night before, Hermione spent the day coordinating with the Deutsch Werwolf–Gruppe from Berlin. While listening to their radio crosstalk, she overheard that one of the captured Acolytes had divulged the name _Longbottom_ in Munich. From that point, it was not difficult for her to acquire German supplies and recruit volunteers for her joint Polish–German werewolf crew, which she named _Phoenix Team_. Cassidy had recommended using a simple port key to get to Munich, but with the Ring of Urobara in play, not to mention the awful beast she had seen while probing Heloise's mind, Hermione didn't want to risk detection as they made their way to Bavaria.

The Werwolf–Gruppe had trusted contacts with both the Baverian polizei, as well as the German federal polizei. Hermione was relieved to be able to count on both as she led the point–team southward. Five bullet–proof civilian vehicles currently shadowed Hermione's Range Rover. In fact, the third car back had two Bavarian werewolves in it, liaising with the Bavarian polizei in order to ensure a smooth ride along the autobahn. Hermione knew that such cooperation was now essential if the Werwolf–Gruppe hoped to keep another Heidelberg from happening.

From the backseat, Maria had not ceased to pontificate on the plight of 21st century wizardry. Three hours ago she was in denial. Two hours ago she was angry. Now, she was attempting sympathy. "Surely you see that the global pureblood presence is dwindling." From the front seat, Hermione did her best to ignore her senseless ramblings.

Maria continued, "In the elder days, it was the purebloods who pondered the Great Mysteries."

Hermione furrowed her brow as she turned to meet Maria's gaze. "Great Mysteries? What _in the hell_ are you talking about?"

"Mysteries. Misterios," Maria countered. "Like the Stonehenge or Easter Island."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, bollocks. Tell us this, Maria. What are the three definitions of justice in Plato's _Republic_? No? All right, if ethics isn't your bag, how about art? Explain to us Hegel's difference between the beautiful and the sublime? Nothing? Why don't you use your pureblood powers to divine for us half–wits the fallacies of mercantilism or the second law of thermodynamics?" Maria leaned back in her seat, throwing her nose into the air. Hermione shook her head and looked to Cassidy. "Easter Island? She recruits teenagers into a murderous cult because somebody showed her a picture of Easter Island?"

Maria chimed in, "When we are gone, who will lead the world into the next age?"

"Oh, bite me, you illiterate bitch!" Hermione snapped.

Cassidy looked up into the rear–view mirror and winked at Maria. She looked puzzled, to which Cassidy smilingly replied, "I've thought for several miles about what I might say to you, lass, and here it is." To which he cleared his throat and intoned, "May the Devil make a ladder from the bones of your back, while pickin' apples in the garden of Hell!" Hermione looked askance to Cassidy who, after a long moment, shrugged and responded, "Sorry. Irish."

"Don't be sorry," Hermione assured.

"He's not," Piotr muttered gravely from the backseat.

"You still alive back there, boyo?" Cassidy chimed in.

"Still alive, brother," Piotr called.

"Ay, that's grand." Cassidy smiled as he looked briefly over to Hermione. "Isn't this fun?"

Maria jumped in, "The Dragon Queen will take _your_ bones and crush them like so many…"

"Shut it!" Cassidy snapped. "You've already been outsmarted by the British Muddy. Take my advice, you wee gobshite. Never go after an Irishman with similes." Hermione turned again to Cassidy and incredulously mouthed _Muddy?_ Cassidy maintained his gaze in the rear–view mirror.

"CASSIDY! THE ROAD!" Piotr yelled as he pointed forward. Cassidy looked down and immediately slammed on the brakes. A series of red brake lights were scattered ahead in the darkness. It looked as if there had been a collision.

"What's going on?" Cassidy wondered aloud.

Hermione shook her head as Piotr depressed the radio button at his shirt collar. "Phoenix Three, this is Phoenix–One. Are you getting anything over the radio about this car pile–up?"

The momentary static was ceased by a German woman's voice. "No, Phoenix–One. State and federal police show no activity. I'm alerting them now."

"Roger last."

Suddenly, a car was raised off the ground and flew forty meters down the street in their direction. Cassidy and Hermione yelled wide–eyed at the sight. Cassidy immediately slung the gearshift back and whipped the Rover in reverse. Several Bavarian polizei cars could be seen racing toward the collision site from the other side of the railing. Cassidy stopped the Rover, and the four of them sat in silence as another vehicle was raised off the ground and hurtled into the tree–lined distance. Hermione looked to the backseat. "Piotr, tell our team to hold position."

Hermione got out of the car and walked slowly down the dimly lit autobahn road. Enough street lamps had been torn down so as to obscure the collision. Hermione watched the polizei lights whirling in the background and took in a breath as she drew her wand. From behind her, Cassidy flipped the flood–lights on. "Right," Hermione said, sheathing her wand. "Well, that's useful." The street was suddenly bathed in light across three lanes of traffic to almost half a kilometer down the road. The silhouette in Heloise's memory was now filled out before Hermione's very eyes. The gorgon flinched at the brightness of the light as she stood on the bonnet of a navy blue sedan with her great claws leaning against the hood. "I found your gorgon, Ronnie." She lowered her gaze as she compared for a terrifying moment her own strength relative to Professor McGonagall. She then drew in a long breath. As she exhaled, she thought of Ron. She thought of his love and his courage. And, while her fear remained, her love was there too. And she quietly turned to rejoin her team.

Hermione glared at Maria as she hopped back into the Rover. "Well, we found your gorgon, you loopy muppet!" Maria just laughed at her. "You do realize," Hermione chided, "that this was a really stupid thing to do. Your people are never going to be able to control it!"

"I think," Maria responded, "that the gorgon is your problem now."

"Please!" Piotr yelled at the floorboard. "Can I _please_ just shoot her in the kneecaps?"

"Petey!" Cassidy yelled. "That's enough." He then looked to Hermione and shook his head. "Jayzus, he talks a lot!" Piotr grumbled in the back, while Hermione rolled down her window.

"OK, Cassidy," Hermione ordered. "I want you to run up on that gorgon with your lights, while I fire off some offensive spells." Cassidy nodded.

Maria cackled as she shook her head. "You are all doomed!"

Piotr engaged the radio, calling in Hermione's instructions. Though she certainly understood the radio's utility, she found muggle technology increasingly strange and off–putting as she advanced in her witchly powers. After Piotr gave the go–ahead, Cassidy led their six–vehicle fleet down the autobahn on a direct path to the gorgon. The gorgon took notice and proceeded to hurl a utility vehicle in their direction. Cassidy deftly veered out of the way, then laid on the speed in the hope that he could get Hermione a clean shot. "I don't like this!" Piotr suddenly yelled. "Something's wrong!"

Hermione steadied her shot outside the passenger window, preparing to fire the worst she could muster. But the Rover began to swerve and rock. Hermione glanced back toward Cassidy to chide him, when she discovered the source of the swerving. The closer the Rover came to the gorgon, the further Cassidy and Piotr metamorphosed into their wolf forms. Cassidy was shaking at the steering wheel, while Piotr, oddly enough, looked to be in mid–gulp from his flask. Reaching from the passenger side, Hermione threw the Rover into neutral and engaged the emergency brake—but she was not fast enough. Maria sat laughing in the backseat, as the bones of the Polish soldier to her right loudly and rapidly cracked and shifted their shape, size, and density. Through Cassidy's driver's side window, Hermione watched in horror as the gorgon launched her next assault. A motorcycle, much lighter and faster than her previous ammunition, came flying toward the Rover. There would be no dodging this one.

In her final available moment, Hermione focused on her spine, neck, and wrists. She made her body as rigid and tense as possible. As the sound of glass and steel collided, she held her breath and closed her eyes. She felt her stomach turn and her head go light as the Rover was violently knocked sideways. The sheer speed with which the motorcycle struck caused Hermione to float euphorically against her seatbelt. With eyes closed, she apprehended the sensation of rolling clockwise. Enveloped in air bags, she thought to herself, _would Ronnie have known about the air bags?_ A moment later and the brutal ride was over.

The world was fuzzy. _Murky_. Hermione could hear firecrackers going off outside. _TAT–TAT–TAT–TAT–TAT._ _Sounds like a distant party_. _TAT–TAT-TAT._ _It has to be one of Fred's infernal tricks_. _TAT–TAT. No. Wait._ _TAT–TAT–TAT–TAT–TAT. Those are assault weapons!_ Hermione collected her thoughts and slowly opened her eyes. She was still seated beneath a pile of air bags. The Rover was lying on the driver's side. She slowly tried her arms and legs—and could feel all four. She felt for her wand and began to crawl through the front windscreen. Her left arm felt broken as she raked it against the scattered fragments of glass. With a scream, she dragged herself out. She quickly surveyed the area and could not believe her eyes.

A helicopter, emblazoned with _Bundespolizei_ along the tail, was firing at the grounded gorgon. Meanwhile the Baverian Landespolizei had initiated a successful perimeter around the creature. There were only three civilian cars near her now, and all seemed empty. Upon closer examination, there appeared to be two uniformed officers down near the gorgon. _The polizei must have been saving civilians from the crashed cars_, Hermione realized.

She then turned back to check on the Rover. It appeared to be empty on the up–raised passenger side. She circled back to the rear. Hermione's breath caught in her throat when she saw blood along the ground at the driver's side rear window. That had been the point of impact with the motorcycle. At first, Hermione attempted to stoop to the ground to get a better look, but the pain in her arm gave her pause. She stood erect and pointed her wand, in her good hand, toward the Rover.

"_Wingardium Leviosa_." With some patience, the Rover lifted off the ground like a feather. As she twisted her arm, the Rover slowly spun ninety degrees clockwise. But the mental and physical focus required to manipulate the vehicle mid–air proved too much, and Hermione let go the moment she was able. With a smash of steel and broken glass, the Rover now sat upright. Blood covered the spider–webbed, rear driver's side window. "_Ventus_," Hermione cast. The shattered glass then blew into the car. She cautiously approached the window and found what she had already guessed was the case. Maria was dead. A pile of clothes, weapons, and radio equipment lay where Piotr had been sitting next to her.

Hermione walked back to the passenger side and pulled the radio from the seat. She took in a deep breath and depressed the button. "Phoenix Team, this is Hermione. Is anyone there?"

After a momentary pause, radio silence broke. "Hermione, this is Viktor Actual. Phoenix Team is down. We are laying down a suppression fire to contain the creature. Over."

Hermione was dumbfounded. _Did I hear that correctly? Did I hit my head?_ To her right, she could see three wolves running into the woods—the alpha wolf was midnight black like Piotr's hair. The radio came back to life with a crackle. "Hermione…Viktor Actual." Hermione continued to breathe heavily as she stared at the road below her. The Muggle policeman on the radio repeated, "Hermione, this is Viktor–Actual. Do you require assistance?"

Hermione closed her eyes and swore quietly. She then opened her eyes and focused on the ground as she bit her lip. _This was going to hurt_. She aimed her wand at her left forearm and declared, "_Brakium Emendo!_" In that same instant, a crunching, wrenching sensation seized her arm. She let out a loud whimper and slid to the ground. She laid still alongside the broken Rover. The nightmarish wail of the gorgon bellowed in the distance as the helicopter continued to hover overhead and gunfire rang out in the night.

—

Polizeimeister Adler looked over to the state police fire team leader. "Moshe, I'm not getting a response." Officer Moshe Weiss stood behind his BMW polizei car, directing his fire team over the radio. Adler continued in English on the Phoenix band, "Hermione, this is Viktor–Actual. Do you read?" SG550 assault rifle fire filled the darkness. Two spotlights were now centered on the weary but determined gorgon. Adler shouted at Weiss over the noise, "I'm going to send Viktor Four to get her before the creature beats us to it." Adler then barked orders into his radio and gestured to his Special Ops team to flank the gorgon. "Hermione, this is Viktor–Actual. Viktor Four is en route to your position. Sit tight."

Over the last three decades, Adler had worked his way through the Federal police service, believing that he could make a difference. As a squib, he was determined to bring magic into the world in whatever way he could. After thirty years in the service, he knew he saw magic everyday in the courage and fortitude of his people. He proudly nodded as the members of Viktor Four selflessly moved without hesitation toward the danger beyond to help a witch they did not know.

Weiss yelled back at Adler, "Hey, it looks like we found more of those hobgoblins in the woods. I'm getting police reports of them within a five kilo perimeter."

"Drow," Adler corrected.

"What?"

Adler yelled over the gunfire. "They're called Drow. Ask them to search for a device that controls the creature."

"Like a remote?"

Adler shook his head. "It won't be electronic," he explained. "In fact, it'll probably look like an amulet or a piece of jewelry."

"Jewelry?" Weiss asked.

Adler nodded his head, "Tell you what—just have them confiscate everything."

"Understood."

Weiss then looked behind him to the police truck already filled with detained Drow. Among them had been a cache of bags, containers, and weapons. But one thing had stood out among the rest. Weiss motioned back to the truck and said, "You know, if it's jewelry you're looking for, there was an impressive looking jewelry box back there."

Adler raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean _impressive_?"

Weiss shrugged and barked an order into his radio. "It was old, and the Drow put up quite a fight when we seized it. It might have the thing you're looking for." A moment later, one of the officers brought the box over to Adler. Roughly the size of a shoebox, it looked to be an ancient, highly lacquered, mahogany container with no discernable lid.

Adler shook his head. "No, this is a puzzle box. Here, put it back with the rest of the evidence." The officer reached out to take it back, but Adler paused. "Wait, I'll hold on to it for now." At that moment, radio silence broke, and Adler was again giving commands to Viktor Team. He set the box on the roof of Weiss' polizei car.

Weiss started to step away, when he turned and pointed at the box. "Adler, your box is glowing."

With furrowed brow, Adler turned to see a beautiful undulating light peering through the box. He wondered at that point if he shouldn't go ahead and open it.

—

Filled with wolfsbane, Piotr was in total mental control. He took alpha–position of the now seven strong wolfpack, which thankfully included the large blond wolf at his side. The seven ran through the Bavarian night, between the ancient pines and beneath a blanket of shimmering stars. The smells were intoxicating to Piotr, who had never changed without a full moon. But pine was not his focus. All seven held the distinct scent of Drow in their muzzles and hunted them now with complete mastery of the terrain. The woods belonged to the wolf. As the scent became stronger, they could even hear the Drow running. They were no more than three minutes ahead of the pack.

Piotr had smelled something else. There were polizei in the woods, and that could complicate things. He took the initiative to put as much distance between the pack and the officers as he could. Cassidy was the first to see a Drow print. A few moments afterward, and Drow prints were all over. Piotr could imagine Kasia just over the next hill. The smell of the unwashed Drow was now quite strong.

The wolves continued their relentless pursuit, until they were suddenly caught off guard. Three of the wolves began to whimper. A moment later, Piotr felt it too and hit the forest floor with a sliding thud. The wolves were changing back. One of the wolves began to howl in pain. _It was the gorgon_, Piotr reasoned. _She changed us when we were near, and now the Drow are drawing us away_. Piotr growled as he recognized that this was merely the next phase of the Drow ambush. _We're incapacitated, unarmed, and outnumbered._

The Drow descended on the metamorphosing wolves with ferocious determination. They lived and hunted in clans. And Piotr knew there would be much glory in taking his hide. Piotr growled at the oncoming Drow, but his growl turned to spittle as his muzzle gave way to his human face. One Drow leaped from the hill ahead and cleared all but the last werewolf. The point–elf screamed in ecstasy as he grabbed the shaking werewolf by the head with one hand, while swinging a machete with the other. Eight more Drow appeared above as Piotr watched Cassidy gripping the canopy floor in tormented rage. Piotr knew that Cassidy, who had not taken the wolfsbane, would meet death in confusion. Piotr rasped a word in Cassidy's direction, and the two locked eyes as they lay helpless on the ground. The dark, spindly legs of Drow ran between their faces as the one watched the other change. Piotr's eyes welled up as he listened to the slaughter of his kinsmen. Two wolves were now gone, and the Drow reveled in their victory. It would be another several minutes before Piotr had any control of his human body—albeit exhausted, naked, and defenseless.

A third wolf taken, and Cassidy was becoming aware of the fact that they weren't in the Rover anymore. Piotr could now feel his larynx slide into position. "Cassidy…we came into the woods." Piotr held back a cough, "We will die here now, as we lived." Cassidy slowly nodded his head and mouthed the word _brother_. Behind Cassidy, a larger and more ornate Drow approached. This must have been the chief, who would have the honor of taking the largest hide. The chief Drow wordlessly loosed his machete from his satchel and lowered it at Cassidy's neck from behind him. Cassidy did not flinch but steadied his gaze at Piotr.

Behind the chief, Piotr suddenly noticed that the forest seemed to be a few shades lighter. No, not lighter—_brighter_. It was getting brighter in the forest. The chief reached down and took Cassidy's head by the hair. Behind him, the forest was now engulfed in a light that every Drow but him beheld. The chief turned to his clan and barked an order in a language too old for Piotr to recognize. One of the Drow pointed in the direction of the light.

The chief dropped Cassidy's head and turned around completely. He laughed and pulled a pistol from its holster and waved both his weapons high in the air. Several of the Drow began to slink back behind the chief. His maniacal laugh continued as he fired off several shots. The other Drow followed suit. A reign of gunfire fell upon the light as Piotr and Cassidy began to regain their _human_ composure. Suddenly, one of the Drow's guns stopped working. The bullets inside his weapon began to explode. This followed with the next Drow and the next. The light was now upon them.

The chief observed one of the Drow lose his hand when his rifle exploded and decided to toss his gun in front of him. The chief then took his machete in both hands and screamed at the light that now engulfed his entire area. But his scream was abruptly ended when a shamshir sword ran through his chest and raised the Drow a meter off the ground. The other Drow screamed at the sight of this, as the light coalesced around a young man bathed in fire. "Behold," the jinni spoke to the slain chieftain, "I carry the sacred flame!" As he slung the Drow off his sword, the jinni then declared to the rest of the clan, "And I shall smite you all!" For the remaining Drow, what came next was purely instinctual. Whichever Drow avenged his chief's death would be the new chief. So, one by one, the bravest of the clan ran screaming head–long into the jinni. However, Piotr observed with some relief that the jinni was quite capable with a blade and routed the Drow with skillful efficiency. In the end, after the acrid Drow blood filled the night air and covered the trees, no Drow remained.

The jinni then turned to the remaining werewolves and checked them for vital signs. For the next few minutes he wordlessly assisted the injured as Piotr and Cassidy slowly regained their strength. The jinni was tearing a bit of Drow cloth to make a bandage when he quickly spun around to face the direction from which he came.

"I heard it too," Piotr said.

Radio chatter echoed through the forest canopy.

Reza looked over to Piotr, "It's OK. They're here to help." The jinni then turned and continued to dress the wounds of the injured werewolf. A minute later, a squad of Landespolizei approached Reza and the werewolves—their weapons at the ready. "It's alright," Reza reassured the polizei. "They're with Phoenix Team." The polizei lowered their weapons. One of them began talking into his radio.

"See, Petey," said an exhausted Cassidy. "I told you this was gonna be fun."

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A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing.


	23. Voices in the Dark

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

I'd love to hear from anyone still out there. At the end of the story, what are you hoping to see resolved (within the bounds of canon of course)?

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CHAPTER 23: Voices in the Dark

The Island of Aeaea off the coast of Greece

A Fortnight Past

August the 3rd

Soran Appian Minksy impatiently sat in the massive, vaulted throne room of the long–abandoned Pythian temple. Her sallow skin and sunken features protruded from a cascade of raven hair. As her cold eyes stared forward, she found three Ophions entering the throne room. She squeezed the mahogany scepter with her bone–white fingers as she watched their approach. It was not their constant presence that irritated her; it was the fact that for these long years she could not communicate with them that displeased her so.

One wordlessly approached her, while the other two continued toward candle–lit pillars that flanked the great fire pit in the middle of the room. The Ophion nearest to Soran reached out in the direction of the enthroned woman. These were the creatures Slytherin's journal had described—senseless automatons, half gorgon and half man, who wordlessly cared for the ancient temple and its royal company. Indeed, several hundred of these near–immortal creatures roamed the halls, armed to the teeth wearing full armor. But they were not yet Soran's to command. Not until she could find an interpreter to speak their damned Parseltongue language. With most of the Acolytes now in the field, she was left for a rare moment with only the Ophions caring for her temple.

She looked down to her hand at the Ring of Urobara. Its obsidian coiled snake shape glistened in the obscure, wavering candlelight of the ancient temple. The ring afforded her the ability to understand the snake language, but not to speak it. She then looked to the Ophion and mocked his inability to understand her. "What have you brought your Regent, you foul, wretched creature?" The Ophion wordlessly reached out with its ancient reptilian claw and set down before her a silver goblet of red wine. "Ok, right. Wine it is then…" The Ophion then bowed his bald, scaled head reverently as he lumbered back into the darkness. Soran raised the goblet to her nose, swirled it, and inhaled deeply. Whatever their faults, the Ophions took great care of her. Standing next to the fire pit, Soran's majordomo raised his elfish chin as his hands silently clasped behind his diminutive back.

"Your Highness, is it your wish that I fetch something to eat?"

"No," Soran said with a snap. "McNair will be contacting us any minute with news of our success."

"Very good, Your Highness," the house elf responded.

Soran glanced back at the two Ophions as they left. They were zealously loyal to the temple and nearly impossible to kill. With the Ophions' abilities, her trusted Acolytes, and the unstoppable Gorgon, she could soon take any city she chose. _Where would the New Day begin? Zagreb? Athens? Perhaps Rome?_ In her spare moments, Soran envisioned herself entering Rome, standing in Saint Peter's Square, accepting the surrender of the Pope as he knelt before her serpentine robes. _I wonder,_ thought Soran, _if it would be better to have the Gorgon publicly kill the Pope as a symbol of my power, or if it would be better to keep him alive—as a plaything down in the catacombs? _There was a simple reason, Soran mused, that Charlemagne, Napoleon, and even Hitler failed to rule Europe. They were all Muggles—creatures of a naturally inferior stock.

"Behold, Your Highness!" the white–robed elf called out excitedly. "Someone Fire–Calls through the pit!"

"Finally. McNair," Soran exhaled. She set down her silver goblet on the side table and stood at her throne. She stared intently at the huge fire pit at the distant center of the throne room as the coals within shook and coalesced into a discreet, blue–hot mound. A moment later, a fiery figure rose from the coals and faced his master. Soran looked confused at the abstract figure before her and called out, "You are not McNair. Where is Field Marshal McNair?"

The voice that came through was immediately recognizable to Soran. "Your Highness, this is Commander Selwyn. I regret to report that Field Marshal Walden McNair was killed during the battle."

"What?" Soran shot back at the flaming image as she descended and approached the pit. "McNair is dead?" she crowed.

"There's more, Your Highness. The Gorgon was taken underwater by Minerva McGonagall."

"Is McGonagall dead?" Soran now sped her way to the flame. "What happened to the Gorgon?"

Selwyn responded, "Both appear to have drowned."

"But you're not sure?"

"In the fog of battle, it was…difficult to make out exactly what happened. It was very dark…"

"It's a bloody uninhabited lake in the middle of the night in Scandinavia, you idiot!" Soran yelled. "I know it's bloody–well dark!" Soran closed her eyes and composed herself before she continued. "So, McNair is dead, then?"

"I'm afraid so, Your Highness."

"Then you are now in command of our forward deployed forces—_Field Marshal._" The fiery image slowly bowed his head. Over the next few minutes, Selwyn debriefed his Regent on the Battle of Birka as best as he could describe. Afterward, Soran looked over to her majordomo and commanded, "Fetch the necromancers!" The house elf nodded, turned, and left her sight instantly. Soran turned back to the image of Selwyn. "I wish to speak to Maria."

"Understood," Selwyn said, bowing his head. The fiery image of Selwyn then dissipated. A moment later and a woman's body now lifted itself from the blue–hot coals.

"Your Highness, Maria de la Serpientes as ordered."

Soran turned and saw that the necromancers had entered the hall. As usual, they had another young man in their clutches. It would take the same effort as before. _How much more convenient it would be for William to be on my side of things_, she thought. She then addressed the fire, "Maria, you've done well with the Drow. You were right to enlist their services."

The fiery image of Maria nodded. "Thank you, Your Highness. I am ever ready to serve."

Soran continued without missing a beat. "Then everything is prepared within the German Ministry?"

Maria raised her gaze, "I am poised to infiltrate and sabotage the Ministry's follow–up efforts. Everything is in place."

"Good," Soran said with a nod and a near imperceptible smile. "I will be reviewing your reports personally." Soran raised her ringed hand toward the flames. "Do not fail me, Maria!"

Maria nodded, "Your Highness."

"And tell Selwyn not to contact me again until he reaches Germany. That is all." Maria bowed as her image dissipated.

"BUGGER!" Soran yelled as she hurled her scepter across the room. _Birka should have gone much better than this! _She glanced to her right at the necromancers. Her elfish majordomo stood before them. She was not sure whether to take his faint smile as reassurance or condescension. Her gaze then fell behind him to the hooded man held by two of the necromancers. It wore a rumpled tweed jacket that was torn at the shoulder seams. Her raised voice echoed in the halls, "Well… Bring it here!" The necromancers had given its body all the proper enchantments. As they guided it forward and dropped it onto its knees, Soran found the smell of the enchantments putrid and off–putting. She looked to the elf, "Bring me the dagger." After a moment she also added, "And bring me that wine on the table." As Soran stared at the kneeling, hooded man, the elf returned with both requested items. Soran took a long draught of the wine and then nodded briefly. One of the shadowy, cloaked necromancers removed the hood to reveal a Muggle in his late twenties.

Soran took another swig of her wine. The Muggle looked up at Soran. It was alive and conscious. That was crucial for the necromancy to work. It started to speak quietly but frantically in a language Soran did not recognize. Lack of sleep was evident in its voice. Soran stood in front of the gateway, much as she had done countless times before. She wasn't sure why she watched it now. Perhaps it was simply the fascination with watching something that was now alive that would be dead a moment later.

She took one last gulp of wine and then threw the goblet into the darkness beside her. Foreplay was nearly over. It was time now to open the gateway. She thought about the blood to come as she set her fingernails against the soft flesh of the Muggle's face. This only made it talk faster and twitch more in its bindings. She had imagined that the skin of its face would peel more like the rind of an orange, but in fact her nails produced almost no blood at all. Soran felt a rage welling up in her. She was angry about what she would have to admit to William. Lucky for her, she had something to punish.

She grabbed its throat with her empty hand and began to choke the foreigner. This made the necromancer behind the kneeling man shift uneasily. "Oh, shut it. I'm not gonna waste your Muggle." But she did wonder, as she raised the dagger over her head, if she could have made its eyes bulge out or its tongue protrude from its mouth like in the Muggle cartoons. With her free hand now gripping its hair, she swung the dagger in a single swift motion across its carotid artery. Blood sprayed all over her and the floor as the necromancers began to chant and drag the dying Muggle to the fire pit. The woman watched as the flames licked and then consumed the body. As the necromancers continued to cast their spells, the enchantments were taking effect. The body and the coals fell into a magical void at an alarming rate of speed. The room, which only a moment before was filled with the sounds of a roiling fire, was now eerily silent and nearly pitch black.

The necromancers then took their seats around the gateway and chanted softly in unison. The hole began to emit a strange sound, as if a great dragon were wheezing from below. "William Gaunt," Soran spoke to the gateway.

"Yes," a low and booming voice spoke back from the abyss.

"Everything's gone to shit, William," Soran responded. "They killed Walden McNair."

"I know," William responded. His voice boomed back, "He is with us now."

"Do you see him?" Soran asked. "May I speak to him?"

"Oh," William responded. "He won't be good to anyone for a long while."

Soran nodded and paused for a moment to collect her thoughts. She closed her eyes and shook her head. "Well, look. Despite your suggestion not to, I had the Acolytes attack Gringott's last week."

"Yes. You did."

Soran looked confused for a moment. "How do you know that?"

"There are no secrets among the dead."

"Well, that makes sense," Soran said as she stilled her gaze.

Gaunt responded, "And the Dragon Queen?"

Soran laughed. "New shipments are continuing to come in. And they _were_ doing a great job of motivating the Gorgon, but that won't do me any good anymore because _my_ Gorgon died at Birka with McNair."

After a long pause Soran gazed down into the bottomless hole—ever careful not to fall into the gateway for those who make that journey may never return. Suddenly, Gaunt's voice came back. "I can tell you with certainty that the Gorgon has not crossed into the Underworld. She will return to you soon."

Soran nodded. "Well, with McNair gone, Selwyn has been given command of the Acolytes. He is going to continue to cull the werewolves in Germany."

"Be sure to take one quarter alive for breeding stock. Otherwise, your plan will fail," Gaunt warned.

"I understand." Soran had come to learn that William Gaunt was a tremendous source of both wisdom and insight. Over the years, and with greater frequency over the last several weeks, Soran had come to rely on necromantic communication to see the bigger picture. Originally, it had not been her intent to speak with Gaunt. She had tried to reach Salazar Slytherin, just like Voldemort had described doing at the end of Slytherin's journal. But it was Gaunt who replied to her. Reflecting now on the slow and awkward dialogue that the necromantic gate allowed for, Soran lamented, "It's a shame you can't be here."

Gaunt's response came rather quickly. It was clear he had given this some thought as well. "There are powers in the Orkney Islands keeping me from the world."

Soran asked, "That sounds like a simple fix. Is there anything I can do?"

"There is nothing you can do there, no." After a thoughtful pause, Gaunt continued, "Nor can I offer my progeny, for there are no more Gaunts among the living." Soran nodded her head as she reflected briefly on Lord Voldemort's demise. How long ago it now seemed that Soran had watched Victoria and the rest of the cowardly Knights of Walpurgis flee from the Forbidden Forest. Her imagination stopped again at the vision of Augustus Rookwood's fascinating tree–arm. "However," the voice resonated from within the deep, "there is another whom you know well. One with promise. With power and wealth—who has tasted the darkness."

"Draco," she said quietly. An image of Draco in the tunnels beneath Hogwarts flashed across Soran's mind as she focused on the sound of his name. She had wanted him so badly for herself. His blonde hair, gray eyes, and rebellious charm. He followed no one. He took what he wanted and to hell with the rest. "Yes, it's a shame Draco isn't with us."

"His ambitions and potential remain unrealized. He ascended quickly in the ranks of other Dark Wizards. He has grown to be a powerful warlock." Gaunt's voice paused for an instant and then said slowly, "He could join us."

Pansy shook her head. "I haven't heard anything about him in years. My contacts in England say he has married and taken to the quiet life."

"My dear," Gaunt boomed, "never underestimate a Malfoy's instinct for self–preservation. What you don't realize is, like all dark wizards, Draco Malfoy is simply waiting for the right moment."

Soran's smile could be heard through her words, "Do you think so?"

"You are Soran," Gaunt responded. "Tell me that which you cannot possess. You are radiant in your power. You are rightfully a Queen. What wizard could deny you?"

Soran looked down to the caked blood along her robes and ran her lithe fingers along her abdomen. "So, what do you recommend I do?"

"Contact him," Gaunt said soberly. "Send an emissary at first so that he can recognize your strength. But he must also have a token of your admiration." At this, Soran looked around the room as if a wrapped package might magically appear before her. "Send him the Ring of Urobara, that he might have proof of the great reckoning coming to the world in the person of Soran Appian Minsky." Gaunt paused to let this sink in and then added, "You are a goddess among mere mortals. With my guidance, you will bring about the New Day and rule the world as the greatest witch who ever lived."

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A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing.


	24. Ten Thousand

Disclaimer: JKRowling owns the Harry Potter franchise and all its characters. No copyright infringement intended. I am not making any profit from this story.

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CHAPTER 24: Ten Thousand

The Underworld

Darkness passed over the hellscape as Draco and his two companions rode their mounts between the craggy mountains beyond Tartarus. They rode for what seemed like days until they reached the putrid black stench of the Naga Marshes. The rotten, oozing mud clung to the legs of the two steeds in veiny black tendrils. The air spoke no sound but that of absence. Since they had left Tartarus, Draco no longer saw the headless workers, the giants, or the teeming throngs of the damned. It was lifeless and desolate here—a nightmare for someone accustomed to the company of others and the sounds of urban crowds. "We are close," Brutus shouted back at Draco. Draco watched Brutus navigate Ealdwulf as their black mount galloped ahead. Draco's unicorn sped up to match their pace.

"So," Draco called out to Brutus, "how do you know the way?"

"The geography of the Underworld is relational," Brutus explained. A look of consternation fell across Draco's face so Brutus continued. "I was connected to William Gaunt in life. We were business partners and friends. I knew his family, and he knew mine. Our deeds and our vibrations echo…" At this, Ealdwulf grunted in a way that indicated to Brutus he should cease to speak. Brutus concluded simply, "So I am connected to him here as well."

Draco thought about this for a few moments and decided that this might explain how Ealdwulf, his ancestor, was able to find him so quickly. "But," Draco challenged, "what about those whose lives aren't connected to anyone else?"

Brutus smiled back at his naïve progeny. "We are all connected to someone, Master Malfoy." Brutus returned his gaze forward and called aloud, "We have arrived." Sitting to the rear of the mare, Brutus was the first to dismount. As Ealdwulf swung his leg over the beast, he let out a great cry of pain. Brutus cautiously approached Draco's unicorn, quietly confiding, "It's his back."

"Brutus!" Ealdwulf snapped, apparently able to hear his skulking companion.

Brutus leaned in and wrinkled his nose, "He's a bit proud." For a moment it looked like Brutus might attempt to touch the unicorn against his better judgment, only to recoil and gaze back up to Draco. "So, are you getting off that thing?"

Draco inspected the repugnant black filth along the ground and shook his head. "I don't believe I will, thanks." To which Brutus shrugged his shoulders and continued to walk forward. With Draco on the unicorn and Ealdwulf and Brutus now on foot, the three went a bit further through the marshes until they came upon a large pit that glowed with what seemed to be dim candlelight.

Once they reached the precipice of the pit, Draco could see the rotten black tar inside the pit as it glowed with an amber light that emanated from a column of fire at its center. The column looked to be several meters high, spanning from the base of the pit up to nearly ground level. Next to the column, Draco saw a tall, emaciated wizard. He looked to be covered in black tar also. He was shouting at the undulating column of fire with his arms held wide open, though Draco could not quite make out his words. However, the words issuing out from the fire took Draco by surprise.

"Maria is still missing. Selwyn is gathering the Acolytes in the Bavarian woodlands and will stop their forces from coming any further south." It was unmistakably the voice of Pansy Parkinson. Draco froze in stunned silence. _Pansy is communicating with the Underworld? _Draco felt a shiver go up his back as he considered the possibility that Pansy was at the center of this. Her voice, he noted, had changed. While carrying an unheard–of tone of leadership, it sounded harsh and overtired.

William Gaunt turned around and nodded, smiling at the three wizards along the mouth of his pit. He then casually turned back and called out to the fiery light, "I understand. It is imperative that Selwyn contain their forces."

Pansy's voice responded again through the column of fire. "The Gorgon has been dispatched to break the pursuing werewolves. We also have several Drow clans at our disposal."

"You have done well, Soran. I await your further contact." And with that, the column of fire escaped into the inky sky above. Ealdwulf lit a torch that glowed with a strange green light and dropped it the fifteen meters below, dimly illuminating Gaunt's pit.

Ealdwulf declared, "May I present the pride and heir of the house of Black, Draco Malfoy, son of Narcissa Black."

Draco sat motionless from atop his unicorn as he watched the frail, filthy wizard approach Ealdwulf's torch. "Could it be? How did you come to be here? What a pleasant surprise!"

Brutus responded gleefully, "Leave it to a Malfoy to surprise the best of us!"

"Indeed." Gaunt smiled at Brutus, allowing his question to pass, and parted his hands, saying, "Welcome then to Draco, son of Narcissa. I am William Gaunt, descendent of Salazar Slytherin and ancestor of Marvolo Gaunt—whom I am sure you will know as the grandfather of Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"Voldemort," Draco breathlessly replied.

"The same," Gaunt said and just as quickly set aside.

"That was Pansy Parkinson," Draco said, pointing to where the column once hovered. "How is Pansy Parkinson contacting you? And, you called her… Is _she_ Soran Minsky?"

Gaunt nodded as his fingers met in front of his chest. "The girl you knew as Pansy Parkinson is indeed the Soran you seek. She contacted me the same way you arrived, through necromantic magic." Gaunt paused, gazing up toward the black nothingness above him. "Did you receive her letter?" Gaunt asked. Draco nodded and from his cloak he pulled the small, creased letter he had received almost a week ago from Nott. This made Gaunt smile. "Excellent. It seems to have had the desired effect."

"But how did…?" Draco began, but his mind seemed muddled by the many questions flooding it. Finally deciding on the most pertinent one, Draco asked Gaunt, "Just what is your role in all of this? Why did Brutus and this large chap bring me here? All I came for is the Scythe of Hermes."

"Is that so?" Gaunt mused. He then turned his gaze toward the eastern distance and spoke a language that Draco could not understand—a lexicon full of hisses, salvia, and harsh noises.

Draco continued boldly, believing the Woman's word that they would simply give it to him if asked. "Yes, where is it?"

Gaunt stared in the distance a moment longer before turning back. "Merak is bringing it. He will arrive shortly."

Draco's jaw tightened. "And McGonagall?" he asked.

"Minerva McGonagall? What about her?" Gaunt responded.

Draco's heart skipped a beat as he looked away fearing he'd divulged too much. It was obvious none of them had expected his arrival. He felt completely unprepared for what was to come. The Woman had spoken of temptation but not this. She had made it seem as if he'd be presented with the Scythe, grab McGonagall, and then return home. _Simple_. But nothing was going as he'd expected.

Thankfully, the trio of deceased wizards were too preoccupied to focus on Draco's question. Ealdwulf lowered Brutus into the pit to grab hold of Gaunt's hand. They then pulled Gaunt out of the pit so that he could stand next to Draco. "Now, that's better," Gaunt said with a smile. "Let me look at you. Brutus, he certainly takes after you more so than Ealdwulf." Ealdwulf snarled at this, but Gaunt continued. "Now, Draco, we have a very long road ahead so I'll try and get right to it."

"What road?" Draco's puzzlement was turning to exasperation, and he was mindful of the Woman's warning of temptation. "I'm here for the scythe; that's all."

Gaunt leaned back and observed Draco atop the unicorn. It was a look Draco knew well. Severus Snape had given him this look countless times—a look that said 'I am a mighty wizard, and you are an impudent little nothing.' Gaunt now spoke quietly and pensively to Draco. "You… don't really see what's happening. Do you?"

"What do you mean?" Draco asked.

Suddenly, an unseen, thousand–year–old voice from behind the three began to speak. "The son of Black will bring forth a new era." Draco turned to see the complete and definitive visage of Salazar Slytherin. It was as if the great Master had stepped out of his hallowed portrait at Hogwarts. In his presence, Ealdwulf removed his helm and all three of Draco's companions bowed their heads in quiet reverence. Slytherin was smaller than Draco, with an ancient white beard and a bald, rounded head. He continued, "I dispatched Ealdwulf, my first pupil, to bring you from the Lethe at the instant I felt you arrive. I have longed to meet you, of all those still loyal to my name." Draco was taken aback. "It is an honor, Draco Malfoy."

Draco sat stunned atop his great mount. From his earliest memories Draco was instilled with the deepest admiration for Salazar Slytherin—the single greatest wizard who ever lived. Champion of pureblood honor, Parselmouth, and the only Hogwarts founder worth a damn. Draco pushed through his speechlessness as best he could. "Sir, Professor Slytherin, sir… the honor is mine!"

Slytherin nodded and placed his claw–like hand across his heart reverently. "Draco, you flatter me. You, child, are the last son of Black." Ealdwulf raised his chin a bit as Slytherin continued, "The best seers have long known this. It is undeniable. After the second millennium, the heir of Ealdwulf, called Black, is destined to bring forth the new era."

"The New _Day_," Gaunt cautiously corrected.

Slytherin nodded back at the learned kingmaker before him. "Gifted mystics, such as myself, have long had the ability to calculate the ebb and flow of magic in the world. In the beginning, powerful wizardly priesthoods controlled the people. But as technology evolved, the sword replaced the spell, and the warlord often displaced the warlock. Ancient empires expanded, and wizardry was forced to the outer edges of civilization. Places like England, a backwater from Roman times, became a refuge for wizardry." At this Ealdwulf nodded with pride.

Slytherin continued, "A thousand years ago, we created Hogwarts to promote the mastery of pureblood magic. Eight hundred years ago, Wizard and Muggle consolidated the Mediterranean world under the banner of the Church—and for a time our priesthood again ruled Europe. Four hundred years ago, with the coming of the modern age, the Muggles drove us underground. As a result, the wizards who now stand before you initiated the Statute of Secrecy."

Gaunt stepped forward, "Despite the Muggles' best efforts, Hogwarts prevailed. Pureblood wizardry prevailed. But I don't have to tell you that pureblood wizardry stands now at the knife's edge." Gaunt stared intently into Draco's eyes now, as he let the events of the centuries wash over the young wizard's mind. "In the four hundred years from our time to yours, the Muggle world has grown far beyond our wildest expectations. Wizardry now hides in the shadows of Diagon Alley. We have abandoned our legacy and shamed our birthright."

Slytherin added, "The mystical cycle of wizardry, when properly understood from an alchemical point of view, tells us that this era of modern science and Muggle hegemony will end with your generation."

Gaunt explained to a now wide–eyed Draco, "With the New Day, Wizardry will rise to its proper social strata. Within seven years, we conservatively estimate that each pureblood wizard or witch will be the master of ten thousand Muggles."

"Ten thousand?" Draco asked incredulously.

"But not you," Gaunt interrupted. "Those 'masters' will be mere serfs to _your_ throne. You will reign above them all as Supreme Warlock of Europe." Gaunt paused to let it all sink in for the flabbergasted young wizard. "Draco Malfoy, you will not rule thousands. You will rule tens of millions."

Draco stuttered a little. "And, h—how do you expect me to do all of this?"

Gaunt raised his chin. "I have arranged everything. You will begin by joining with Soran. She has an Ophion Army ready for your command and a network of European purebloods who are devoted to the New Day."

Behind Gaunt and the others, Draco saw a long–dead wizard approach with an aged wizard following behind him. The aged wizard was dressed in dark red robes and appeared to be a comparative newcomer to the Underworld.

Draco seized the moment to rally himself. He needed to focus. This was the temptation the Woman warned him about. The more he heard his elders speak, the more this began to sound like some kind of coronation. _Of course_, he told himself, _the wizards of the Underworld would offer me something grand, but it's only talk. It's not like they have any _real_ power or influence anymore; they're dead._ Draco nodded his head to Gaunt. "Ok. But you know that I already have a wife whom I love… With everything you seem to know, surely you understand this?"

Gaunt chuckled at Draco. "She is a beautiful pureblood, Draco. Keep her as one of your mistresses! Shower her with gifts if it pleases you. Offer her something to play with, perhaps Sicily or Sardinia. That's fine. But do not be naïve, Master Malfoy. She, like everyone in your life, has been nothing more than a tool—a means to an end."

Draco bristled at this with a raised voice. "I love Astoria!"

"Do you?" Gaunt challenged. "Or are you just using your marriage to her, like you've used everyone you've ever known, to your own advantage?" Gaunt let his accusation hang in the air before he continued. "Like any warlock worth his salt, you have aligned with the one who gave you the best chance for survival as you have always done."

Draco was now visibly confused. "How so?"

"Please, Draco. You are above such simple self–deception. You used your mother's love to flee Voldemort. You used Severus Snape to kill a wizard whom you were charged to kill. You used the Potter boy to escape the Fiendfyre curse." Brutus gestured defensively with his hand, indicating that Gaunt had well made his point. After a pause, Gaunt added, "Astoria Greengrass is merely a means to an end. In the wake of Voldemort's failure, you believed the Greengrass girl would facilitate your return to polite society after associating with the losing side of the Hogwarts' Battle."

Draco shook his head, defiant, "No, you don't get it. I have no plans to be a 'World Supreme Anything.' I just want to be left alone."

Gaunt nodded sympathetically, "All great wizards have these thoughts at one time or another. But you can't deny who you are. You can't deny your killer instinct, Draco." Gaunt's voice became grimmer, "We all know what you did to Theodore Nott." Gaunt then looked to the others before focusing his dark eyes on Draco. "We know that when you think no one is looking, you are an awesome force of raw wizarding power."

Draco's face grew pale. He'd done so much to conceal that. "How do you know about Nott?"

The late arriving wizard laughed from behind Gaunt. "Where do you think he went when he died?"

Gaunt gave a half turn and gestured to the wizard, "Draco, may I present another of your ancestors. This is Merak Black."

Merak nodded, "I was with Brutus at the very first International Wizarding Counsel. I am proud to see our houses combined to produce such an impressive warlock." Merak smiled as he continued, "We have great hopes for your success, Draco." Draco almost flinched at the gentle look in Merak's eyes. Draco's own father could barely stand to look at him after all that had occurred over the last ten years. Draco thought bitterly that he had reconciled with the fact that Lucius would always consider him a disappointment, but here was a kinsman who acknowledged there was something special about him, and he was shamed to realize how good it felt. "My child, you will be among the greatest wizards of all time. Like Slytherin, you will come to be revered by generations. But…" Merak raised a finger. "Your _reason_ will not take you where you are going. It is your unparalleled _will to survive_ that guides you. Self–preservation is stronger than any other instinct."

Slytherin added, "Draco, hiding in Wiltshire, England only stifles your abilities. Your destiny is in unmatched greatness."

Merak looked to Slytherin and then Draco. "Besides," he paused as he swung the steel scythe from the strap behind his back, "think of how many more options you will have before you with _this_ leading the way."

Draco studied the weapon for a moment. It had blackened handle grips along a solid blued steel staff that terminated at a great and menacing sickle–shaped edge. Merak twisted the handles, which had the effect of doubling the length of the entire weapon to a full two meters. Draco nodded his head, "The Hermetic Scythe."

"That's right," Merak said. "One of the few weapons that can travel between planes. It was made for use in the Underworld." Merak then paused as he waited to see that he had Draco's full attention—he did. "McNair!" he called out. The red robed wizard, who looked quite ill at ease, looked slowly over to Merak, who continued, "McNair, you have failed us. Hold out your left arm." When the wizard hesitated, Ealdwulf merely had to look in his direction for him to comply. McNair closed his eyes and held out his left arm. Merak then positioned the scythe at the center of McNair's chest. "Draco, this is bone." And with that, Merak single–handedly slid the scythe deep into McNair's chest. McNair screamed for a gargling moment, but then it was all over. His body fell quietly to the tar black ground and dissipated into millions of tiny embers before disappearing completely.

Brutus looked to a laughing Merak and mockingly chided, "I thought you were only going to cleave his arm." Merak simply gazed back at Brutus with a grim smile and shrugged.

"But we're in the Underworld!" Draco exclaimed. "Where else can he go?"

"There are levels of existence far beneath this," Gaunt countered.

Merak shortened the weapon and walked toward Draco's unicorn, which for the first time caused his mount to take a step back. Merak gestured to the unicorn and smiled, "See what I mean?"

Draco steadied his steed as best as he could, "So the scythe. It can kill anything?"

Merak nodded, "If brought into the world, it could destroy anything." Merak then looked to Gaunt, "How is it that he can return in the first place?" But Gaunt needed simply to raise a finger in his direction, and Merak ceased to speak and handed him the scythe.

Once Gaunt had the scythe in hand, he raised it vertically and plunged it into the putrid ground before addressing Draco. "To use this weapon in the world, you will require our blessing. Part of its power is that it cannot be forcibly taken. It must be given freely." As Gaunt reached his hand toward Draco, he continued, "Face your mount away from me so that I might bring your ring closer." Draco hesitated. He needed the Scythe and the ring to accomplish his goals, and despite their claims, these decrepit old wizards could hardly do more than talk and dream down here. Resolved that they could not harm him, Draco extended his hand.

"Fear not, Master Malfoy," Gaunt said reassuringly. "It is for your benefit that we do this." However, when Gaunt took Draco's hand, Draco was seized with the sensation of ice shooting up his arm. Gaunt brought the ring to his mouth and pursed his rotten lips over the Ring of Urobara. Once he kissed the ring, Draco could no longer feel the ice –cold sensation. In fact, Gaunt had become almost translucent. Gaunt then nodded his head to Brutus who copied his same actions. And again, the sensation of ice stabbed through his arm. Draco's grip on the unicorn weakened from the experience. Lastly, with Merak standing behind them, Ealdwulf approached and seized Draco's trembling hand. Ealdwulf's grip was far, far more brutal. Ealdwulf brought Draco's hand to his beard. His hair felt like icy razor wire. But, like the others, as soon as Ealdwulf kissed the ring, the sensation ended.

A final shiver shook through Draco as he swooned on the unicorn and lost his grip. The unicorn tried to compensate for his swaying, but Draco fell off his mount and into the black tar beneath. As he fell, Draco had the sensation that his mind and his body were ripping open. The tarry substance felt like acid on his flesh. The air burned his lungs and scalded his eyes. His mind was stricken with waves of dread as he looked toward Merak, struggling against the sensations, but the image of Merak was now that of a bleeding beast with a wide maw of broken teeth and a great weight chained to its yellow chest. It screamed the most ghastly noise at Draco, turning from him and beginning to run. Draco looked to his right for the unicorn. Its light was almost blinding. As he reached for it, he could feel his skin immediately begin to cool and his mind begin to settle. The unicorn had lowered his front legs to make it easier for Draco to mount him. Draco felt instant relief as he rolled onto the creature's back. The whole episode could not have been more than a few seconds, but the experience felt like it had been several hours.

He panted on the unicorn's back as he looked around and realized he was completely alone. All of the other warlocks had disappeared; however, where Gaunt had been standing, the Scythe of Hermes remained stuck in the ground. Draco took a moment to gain his composure and then circled his mount toward the Scythe. The unicorn galloped effortlessly along the tarry terrain, and Draco thrust out his fighting hand and took the Scythe for himself. He was prepared for it to be much heavier than it was. In fact, it barely had any weight at all.

Draco held the scythe vertically as the unicorn began to thunder back across the terrain. As the unicorn travelled, Draco noticed the strangest sensation in his left hand. He looked down and instantly realized, _I know where to find Professor McGonagall!_ Instinctively, Draco laid his left hand along the crest of the unicorn, which had the effect of setting the unicorn on a very fast, very specific trajectory. As the unicorn made more distance across the shadowed valley and past Tartarus, Draco's left hand began to glow with a soft light. He felt pressure on his hand almost as if it were being squeezed by an unseen force. As he approached the River Lethe, he could see the doe and werewolf patroni circling the nearest shore, waiting for his return. The unicorn did not slow a single hoof beat, and the three together raced across the river toward the Asphodel Fields.

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A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing.


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